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This was where the siren sang our graves, dead tombs piling up by the rocks in the sea, the scent closer to whiskey than to this primordial soup. We'd been hearing their names, we'd been moving and passing along, watching their eyes as they looked at us where we sang in the crowd and illumination culminated from the hard labour of the days before, death told us it understood and we believed it.

Time was dragging its heels, children were being born and more lonely people came by, shadows were ruling and all the kings were mad. Madame Guillotine who married so many men and a few women were rejected in the town of Radiance, Alabama because the ruling powers as well as the men in the streets and the women in their homes and the children, the children sucking the tits that all meant that the old Madame couldn't be introduced again here, in this new world because she had dated too many women.

The cruise ship will sail, will head to warmer climates and different horizons and the captain will look perky, his fondness of eighteen year old girls only surpassed by his desires for threesomes with aforementioned girls and his mother which happened now more often as she walked slowly towards her death nearing the hundreds. After each session, they would have servants to mount the girl on a cage where the captain and his mother would lie beneath in a rubber bed, they themselves caressing each other as their servants drained the girl of blood. There they'd lie, tender and loving showing us all what we can be.

and Love would be what we'd see every day if we had all seen what they had seen in one of those moments, the world would allign to that, passion being used on motivational posters, completely unironic and the world would be gathered in one order as the world now is gathered in several orders

race, sex, sexual orientation, education and social standing

would be annihilated as semantics changed the world

It was your beady eyes that put us all off the revolution. You had it all nailed down, the clothes, the ages, the beliefs and the stereotype, we were young as you poured us our first glasses of cheap red wine and gave us the first taste of civillization as you read us the old political classics, borrowed out the brave new world, 1984 and darkness at noon

Your hashish was shitty but atleast you were holding, atleast you were connected in some way and for us, then, it was enough to razzle dazzle us into pledging allegience to mao, lenin, stalin and castro. Some of us skipped school, began working in the filthiest most back-breaking jobs we could find and the lessons we should have learned about realpolitik back then went by us like bullets in a drive-by

We thought we'd understood, we'd seen the light in such an early age and we knew we were special, our minds more advanced than anyone we knew and even though we never spoke of jesus or religion in any other way than between our teeth with hissing noises and cursing hands

chosen was what we were

"I saw her today at the reception
In her glass was a bleeding man
She was practiced at the art of deception
Well I could tell by her blood-stained hands"   - M Jagger & K Richards

The tetragrammaton is written on her back, black ink pushed underneath the skin in one of our many prisons in this age. Blood throbbing under the significance of the secret name of the godhead. The heart beats faster, races as the pain reaches the peak and the frames are all set before the artist fills it in with the black, the spreading darkness leaving her numb before she falls into a trance pronouncing the letters but never the word itself leaving it hidden until she's free from her mall/prison/school.

The order in the universe resonates through her and as she slowly realizes that life has no meaning, love has no meaning and hate has no meaning and reality is a manifestation of qlippoth, discarded souls moving along the corridors, cold doors barring what they see as the light while they themselves think to walk involuntarily in the dark. The grass is always greener on the other side manifests itself in a cult, worshipping toads crucified to the most common religious symbols and promises of a heaven undreamt.

A man sees the name on her back, vaguely glowing and as his panting and moaning grows, the word is set free from this iron prison

It was now I should've gotten it, seeping through the cracks of my mind hitting me where it pleasures me most. An awakening, been preparing for this forever. My eyes are numb and my mind is sore, the tiredness of the situation and these old dreams we don't wear anymore with their lipstick on the wrong way, smudged this life is as we try to fathom it, try to take it all in before we make a decision.  Emily Dickinson's fog was rising and we're here now, we're looking at these strange faces made of clay and we're still here, dead to the world but breathing.

They won't look twice at us, they won't send in the military to stomp down our procession, they won't look at us twice as we jump quickly through the shadows, passing on life as it passes us by, the way we won't remember it, busy and hectic, filled with the seriousness of the situation, what got us here, to this place where we were dreamt, when the mouths of the world are open, when the volcanoes will no longer burst and the old gods still lingering under the iceberg will not come to our aid for this is where we are truly alone, this is the only path where you are alone

It is a golden road to Xanadu and Samarkand we have tread upon, leaving small tokens of humanity as we pass the crossroads and intersections and we aren't walking on the road of life, we aren't experiencing the spheres or indiras net, we're just observing as the planes land and we eat microwaved breakfasts in airport cafeterias

There are no wrong calculations, there are no wrong ideas to deflect upon, there is no truth left anywhere for it's all softened down to perspectives and the multi facetted life of the midwife hangs over us like doom, for the one who delivers us, how can we expect to lie to her, how can we expect to go further and dream of other things when we can stop thinking of her, our midwife, hanging on to us, seeing through our eyes, souls and mirrors, watching us seize up and die

They're hanging on to us, like we hung onto them, they are needy as we were needy once before but where we think we have learned, they have learned, they have understood and seen and are still, watching like hawks, the junkies and the time travellers drink in the same  pub and that was where we first stumbled upon an answer, so young and so frail and so right but so scared
Our fingers are the devil, our fingers are demon, the host itself watches over the seven thrones and looks glaringly at us from a distance. We lost the first try, we lost that important dice roll and the gods were all looking away when he threw it on the ground, hurled it like a spear and it shattered the world

it shattered the golden road we'd walked upon for so long and we saw the cracks and underneath the layers of gold we found the hardest whitest porcelain and as we touched it something touched us and we were left again to our own devices, to our own designs

We were at a crossroads, still watching and every road that led from the crossroads were broad and paved with gold and we walked those roads still with the fond memory of the porcelain underneath, our steps were different now, sometimes lighter, sometimes harder, bordering on trampling and we marched sometimes when someone sang that song, that old lonely song

That old ballad

You were there then. You were there then, when it happened. It came onto us, it saw both of us and we were caught in some old horror flick, we were a different bonnie and a different clyde  but that was who we were, those were the demons we rode, these were the roads we rolled, this

was were our youth disappeared to, fickle thing it is, you don't know you had it till you lost it and it's no use crying about it because everyone lost it and none wants to talk of it,  like a good friend in prison

The future. Alan Moore says in From Hell that Jack the Ripper delivered what we live in now, what we fear now, what we've overcome thus far, where our demons have carried us and there is a fourth dimension, time has an architect and William Blake was indeed a prophet

if lovecraft hadn't written like shit the world wouldn't be like this

think about it, this fourth dimension, go with me here, time repeats it self with a mathematical answer to how but never a why but it's fifty years abouts since brave new world and 1984 were written and we're growing closer to the equilibrium of howard phillips lovecraft

what if (humor me) he told the truth?

He was right. Underneath the ice, some of them sleep. The ancient Plateau of Leng where the monstrosities communes with those old ones still here, hearing the gargling sounds from R'lyeh and here it is
Here is his tale. Here is his story. What we're seeing, experiencing and feeling is the imprint reality made upon howard phillips as he grew up and saw the world differently than he did when he was a child and he was obviously a bright child, to have understood what one needed to hate which shouldn't be hated

that was also where we met for the first time, in that pretty hate, that clean hate which none can explain or understand, ice hot and filled with light and love, radiating sentience and confusion

We were doing it too much when it came to that. Our favourite subject and we always hit it once every afternoon we met, whether it was over a cup of tea in the gentleman's club or before a lecture, waiting for the bus, slept too long and the coffee from seven eleven tastes like dog turds with hot water and you realized for the first time yesterday that you need to do something else, somewhere else

These were the illuminations, the youth in us spoke out and they didn't see us as we slipped by their beds with blades in our hands and we cut them open

Then and there

we were caught in some old horror flick, we were a different bonnie and a different clyde but that was who we were, those were the demons we rode, these were the roads we rolled, this

Next week I'll begin

Next week I'll do the things that need to be done, the choices that must be made and order must be built in the neverending chaos, civillization must come to the human soul

I cannot doubt anymore, I have to act

Next week will be filled with action, I will make decisions and stick to them, I will learn that growing old also means I'm closer to death

I will learn about the seriousness of the situation

Next week I'll learn about the humans and I will develop a bleeding heart, I will act on intellect and I will vote with my money, I'll do the right thing, bring coherence and stability into the anticosmos

I see that the crossroads are nearing

Next week I'll learn about the devil, understanding the concept soul as it is viewed on in professional showbiz and I will kill my dreams and return to school, get a degree within a few years and do something constructive

I will mend my destructive ways

As I'll understand that life is precious, must be protected, love is the highest form of primal emotions and which is why religions are founded upon it, I'll understand that there is no difference between chaos and cosmos, I'll understand that chaos is the same as order just because they're balancing points in a discussion began centuries ago just like the eternal discussion of chocolate or vanilla that only recently ended due to the strawberry cheesecake and these same discussions rage back and forth today between towering personas seeking to create order in their chaos, on rabid messageboards across the internet to dating services devouted to the men and women who still debate

whether it's chocolate or vanilla

"In my heart lies the blood
in my veins you hear the flood
in my stomach a cod

flapping still, the undeads are everywhere
and if you're completely still you can hear them
trouts, halibuts or eel
the dolphins know
the cursed fish serve the sunken city"  -   Olaus Wormius, Preface to First translation of Al Azif



There is no reality anymore. Vampires everywhere turned to dust as I touch them, making me wonder of their frailty then the weather grows colder and the vampires quicken again, roses in their cheeks and satisfaction in their smiles. We see the vampires on the billboards now but we're growing accustomed to it, no longer wondering about that but just shrugging it as we sit by the docks and gaze into the sea, drinking manhattans and smoking turkish cigarettes.
Then, the people smile. Stretch their faces and behold the miracle that is the world, no longer believing in a god but the apocalypse happened and everyone was brought to an understanding. We were all enlightened to the godhead as we saw and met our dead family and smiled and cheered, our stomachs filling up alan moores occasional disney happiness for every day we are without profoundness we don't understand the emotion, we don't see. We don't understand.

Sommes, Verdun et Chemins des Dames

Our memories fade and bleed over the screens, transported elsewhere to be processed, the ever-increasing flow of information ticking off the believers, seeing an infant and dormant AI being built and maintained by the flow coming from every orifice, puss flowing from your veins as everyones minds are mingled and we become something greater, something bigger than ourselves, godhood built by every human being on the earth

"The gods did not create humans
the gods were not curious,
they were never good to the humans
who were their creators

yet like gotham needs its' knight
we need these gods
those that are not good nor evil
simply existing and caring little

for us,
for those whom the sun revolves"   -   Pamphlet for the "Cthulhu for President" campaign '08

The dead were dancing long before we showed up. The dead had comedy acts, upright stand up citizens telling the stories of life and death over glasses of beer. There are no snitches among the dead for the dead have seen what happens, the dead have learned more than the living, the dead know more about life than the living and that's the real kicker because the dead can't tell us what they know, we aren't allowed to drink from the pool of the dead visions. Crossing the line some do, or try to do, trying the old ways, giving away an eye for the knowledge of the world, embedded deep into the sidewalks and bridges, seething in the rivers and the bars but Odins ways don't work anymore. That magic has been exhausted and like Crowleys magic now wanes for magic doesn't follow those rules, magic needs to be created. The potency of magic never belonged to any mainstream.

The dead drift by the houses of those who wished they were, crashing on couches with heated coffee from the microwave, the dirt underneath the nails showing no promise to the junkies of hope, those who needed change for their lives to function but whom never got that change because it was no easy way to get it. They didn't want to be targets, they didn't want to do it like this because there is a law, there are laws at work which govern all we don't see, the laws never govern our actions, no laws have ever governed our actions but they've always governed our words. The belief is that from words comes action and as they believe this we begin to believe it and the holes of our beings are repaired, filled with steelwool so that the rats will never gain access.

Some times they scream at us from the top of their lungs but we do not hear them, we see them and their screams. Black and blue silhouettes against a red pavement but there is no blood, there are no drops needed to be spilled anymore as we walk through these lives that have lived but not let for it's all been shed before, in everyone's names and it never mattered if it was legitimate or not, the old law still govern us

as the old law goes from love under will

to where we are now, in the old days and we're watching gysin/burroughs climb alamut and we can hear them up there on that mesa, screaming for hassan i sabbah in that guttural sound that comes sneaking up when you've taken too many assorted drugs at once and your voice is no longer in your control and you repeat the mantra for while jack the ripper gave birth to this century, gysin/burroughs were ahead in time and delivered the next and they stole their mantra and put it on our fates and souls, lodged it into our backbone so that when we hear it for the first time, something makes sense, we understand the law

we understand that nothing is true, everything is permissable as we also understand that everything is true, nothing is permissable

sit around coffeetables, drinking it black and smoking cigarettes
sit around on barstools, writing codes of conduct on napkins
sit around the parks, feeding pigeons and stepping on the soapboxes when time is here
sit around the tv
sit around the pc
sit around when every soul in the world delivers their state of the union address

this is the law, this is the will as the dead march outside the windows of the living, trying to tear it down, trying to keep the two worlds different, trying to give that last ray of hope to the junkies of change

their ideas are dead and gone, they wish to live in utopia
their hearts are no longer there, staring at us with empty eyes

you see, hope was never our weapon, hope was their weapon if we can call it a weapon, the only thing the junkies have left

is the hope that their life mattered when death comes, that their lives are given value by their deaths, not for themselves


but for those who saw them

We pass into Discordia town late afternoon, our bellies growling from too much caffeine, stains on ourselves, souls and streams of consciousness. It's a little town, Discordia Town, not too big, not that much to see really but it's there and eventhough we've passed it so many times already this is the first time we stop by because it's like that posh place which isn't really posh but posh for you and your friends because you're seventeen and in one year you'll be able to drink there legally and even though you can hit up the brown neon lit pub down by the docks it's not the same because anyone can get in there so you dress up and you look like a retard because you're seventeen but you're a different retard, you're someone else tonight and the hearts of the world will light up as you come around.
Mental preparation are in the works for weeks and you jazz eachother up as you go to that other town where you'll spray copious amounts of cheap cologne on yourself from the local beauty boutique so you'll smell differently and while most of them grow out of this mental habit some stay back inside it and this is what makes them take their time as they arrive in Discordia Town.

"If you start then I'll make the sequel" - Klangstabil

As I adore Rogers line about them not seeing the weirdness that you are, I can imagine Discordia Town to be pretty grey but very beautiful. It isn't boring but there are no orange/teal houses, the craziness is on the inside they teach at Discordia School, remember that children, remember that the weird is in your head as it is in everybodys heads, we can manifest the weird in our physical actions of course, but what would be gained or lost doing this? Now children, this will be your assignment for tomorrow, describe in any way you feel is accurate the pros and cons of showing your weird to the world.

We meet with the mayor and a few of his henchmen during lunch, our tape recordings to be scrutinized more before put in an archive for we know these people won't really make the press, unless there are surprises looming on the horizon but he's a bald guy with a too long beard and he's constantly stoned but it seems to be the way for him to be in his mind he reminds me of house except that this dude is trying to say something funny at the same time as he says something profound but coming only across as very insecure and way too self-conscious and he's telling us a story and we've heard it before but we can see it in his eyes, he's hoping this one will surprise us, catch us off guard and we'll marvel at him because that what this dude wants, he wants us to look up at him, to look at him and he's trying so hard to be watched.

The mayor and his people leave and we get a fourth serving of our coffee, it's a rundown diner of sorts but the menu is all wrong and it feels like we're part of a movie as we pick up todays 3 coursed meal and as we ask the waiter that she should bring us anything that he or the chef deems appropriate to our meals as long as the coffee keeps on coming and the chef comes out of the kitchen, looking hung over with five rockefellers on a tray and as he silently walks up to us he hands us each one before he drinks his three and as he walks back into the kitchen he grabs a bottle of white from the waiter

There was duck for the first course and now there's three hotpockets on each of our plates and as we dissect them with our silver, an angry man walks in, sits himself by the counter and orders three donuts, an ounce of coffee before he piles a small mountain of amphetamine on the counter, makes a barcode of it before sniffing away. The waiter joins in and says thanks officer and when we look in that direction he's on his way over and he says so, out of town folks, don't get that much around here, can i sit?
He sits down and asks if we want amph but we pass as we're coming up on the brownies we ate in the car and we are where we should be and this guy, we look at him as he's silent while eating his donuts and chugging his coffee before he begins to speak or much really lay the law on us

You see, the reason we don't get many out of towners here is because I kick them out the minute they've come in here because we get so many hippies, pagans, newage revitalists, acidheads, potheads, gluesniffers and other filth and they aren't looking for anywhere except for a place to belong and you can see it in their eyes but the fucked up thing is that they've heard the mayor and they haven't yet figured out if he's a hack or not so when new arrivals come down I take them straight to new auschwitz which used to be where we trained new police officers but there's really no need for many in a town this small so we've put up nissen huts as we fence them in with all his books and words and whatever shit along with every stimulant you could desire except food because after they've spent two weeks in there on drugs, water and him, it's those with coherency in their derangedness I want. I usually drink and when I'm drunk I don't want to arrest people because they started a fight about pineal glands or other shit, that stuff is completely fucking useless other than as a lure for other people but fuck it doesn't really work for that either

We finish our meal and walk about in town, taking snaps and trying to find postcards but there doesn't really seem to be any, there's this tourist shop but we don't dare approach it as it seems the only living things in there are cats because there's cats fucking everywhere so we move on and after browsing some we come by the church, outside on the porch there's an african american gentleman, clad in tophat and tuxedo sitting down, eating what appears to be blueberry pie.
He eyes us as we start moving towards him past the tombstones and all we notice are saints, every name in the yard is SAINT something or other and the occasional POPE but we're not really looking at them, just glancing and skimming like we do whenever we pick up religious pamphlets and the guy sitting on the stairs starts to yell niggers niggers fucking houseniggers niggerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrs at us before we're just at his face at which point he stops. He puts his pie down and walks inside and we hear the rustling of paper and he walks outside with two pamphlets in each hand and one of them is yellow, the other is blue and as he gives it to us he says it's a mayoral edict that I have to hand those out to everyone who comes up to me

We open and skim them, watching the cheesy cartoons and lighthearted dada clipups oh if william burroughs knew and as we skim through them, he observes us beginning to talk
You see, that shit right there is foundation, right, it's what we'll get remembered for, it's what our critics will pull forth if we should ever gain enough popularity, like the old testamente for christian dudes and dudettes growing 16 and anti whatever is in fashion that month but there's a fucking I reason I'm sitting out here and eating pie instead of sitting inside there, actually, there are several reasons for that cathedral was built on guilt, it's dark and musty, smells like there's fungus and even when all the windows are open it still reeks of old crusty semen but you know what, you could've built a mini sized mall here and made the graveyard into parking lots and it'd have been the same because this ain't where it at, there's no idea of going into the church game because the fuckers in the church game are big players and you don't squeeze them easilly

So, you know, we have to do something else entirely

"One man showed up at a federal building, asking for release from the reality show he was sure was being made of his life."  -  http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20081124/ap_on_re_us/truman_syndrome


You have all conceivable right. Not only do you have all rights but you should always be, should always see it, not shoving it underneath your pillow or ignoring it. You have a right to be mad and you should be mad. You should be angry and for all that bile and poison that's working up inside you will most likely kill you, not the ones it's directed at. Because you're really a good person. You might talk loud, you might scream and people that don't know you might look upon you as angry or angsty but those that do know you, know that your heart is kind.

We all know that we should love, possibly from early childhood we are taught that love is the most superior thing. Love gives meaning where there was none. Love can cure sick hearts and heal diseases and the answer to Planescape: Torment's plot defining question - What can change the nature of a man? is love. Love is in the air. Love is wonderful, it makes us feel well, it does something to us that we're usually too afraid to do. Drugs can also have that effect but unless you had a guided trip with a spiritual leader of some kind, drugs don't stay in your body, drugs disappear, the effect disappears. Which brings us back to love.

Which brings us to hate for isn't hate and love the same word, the same feeling with different mechanics? What is hate if not love? What do you do for hate that you do not do for love or vice versa? Why should we not hate when we should love? Why are we not taught to cultivate hatred, to build it up and see how it functions? Why is hatred that which comes before an apology or a feeling of guilt? As I see it, there are two strong emotions, love and hate. In the other end of the scale, we find apathy, the complete lack of either functions. By following this theory, hate should be as equally blind as love, non? Give the bitch a sword and the amalgamation of love and hate and here we have justice. Did you know that justice was called judgment back in the day?

Blind but not like bats. Blind like an old man, with white rotting skin sitting in his cave and waiting for the one-eyed king to lead him the way. That kind of blindness. Some should say that we are cured of our blindness or some of us are, living with the delusions of being Truman and not really distrusting everyone we know or going into a hissyfit as what they're doing is just their jobs.

"Meanwhile, researchers in London described a "Truman syndrome" patient in the British Journal of Psychiatry in August. The 26-year-old postman "had a sense the world was slightly unreal, as if he was the eponymous hero in the film," the researchers wrote."

Not doing the whole discussion of reality television as people were morons with hopes of grandeur before there was tv but is all it takes to feel as if the world is slightly unreal? Who hasn't ever felt that the world is slightly unreal? Who hasn't believed that this is an illusion and all of it is a hoax? I mean, if you're one of the people with rand or däniken on the nightstand, what parts of the world do you even accept as real? What can be trusted? What can be distrusted, what can be conditioned from birth as in a Huxleyan reality or most importantly, what can't?

The heart. When we love or when we hate all we know is our heart and while we may have been pavlovian dogs earlier, we do not tap into that when we clench our fists and scream. When we hate at something founded, when we get pissed off because we're  out of toilet paper and coffee filters. It is what we fall back on, it is our second plan, our emotions. I have met bright people that have felt that we should never submit to hatred because it would have been the same as stunting our evolutionary growth while the same crimethincers believed that love is good because love is pretty. You see, hatred makes us like them and whether it's the political competition or the chimpanzees they're talking about, what is really wrong with giving in to our hate and smash something? It won't change anything but when did ever love do, change something that wasn't part of your world?

"And everybody knows that its now or never
Everybody knows that its me or you
And everybody knows that you live forever
Ah when youve done a line or two" - Cohen

I want to find a girl there. She might be standing alone or she'll be with someone, her boyfriend or perhaps her father or mother, it seems like a nice thing to have in the family, cultural appreciation in all levels and tiers of their humanity and commitment. The father or the boyfriend will have run into someone, someone who works there and says he's there to see the same show and he's superpsyched, his word for it and you'll be looking at him like he's shining glass, trying to fix your eyes on something solid and as your gaze trails the contours of this empty man filled with so much man you'll see me and I'll see you and for a second we know that everything is right with the world, we aren't articulate enough but every secret in the world opened to us and we stood there with freedom in our eyes untill they ring the bell and we take our seats.

It is an interesting piece, you sit to the right of me, a few rows down and occasionally you throw your eyes towards me and only once do our eyes meet. The writer director is a young american of korean descent and she also plays the role of her self. A farce of sorts, complicated like she probably is, judging simply from the dialogues and I am in awe for it is beautiful and this isn't a story, we're not waiting for the ups or downs to build characters, we are free from that as our confusion grips us and we are open and we see this world and our hearts are opened

It was a very open and honest piece. I think you're thinking what I'm thinking, that here is a form of sacriledge, a feeling of doing something illegal, something we shouldn't, a feeling we haven't had since we were kids. We should walk over to ourselves but we stand still, frozen still, phazed and not really understanding and not there when we had to
not at the most important of times we should have followed our instincts we chose to ignore them, we stayed underneath, watched the ships sail as we slowly drowned, passing african people in chains

You were pale, white but with an intense red burning underneath it, you were low but not truly petite, more womanly and at times I imagine I would be able to see underneath your skin, see the blood and the fat and the gore and the bones, you'd be transparent and in the summer you'd disappear out of the shade and we talked earlier that night as we ate and drank red wine, just the two of us, smoking a joint and watching the waves crashing and the moon falling slowly and we talked of the french words; la lune, merde, mort and you had a cousin called mort and we laughed even though it was a stupid joke and we were both of us too much in love to see those things because we trained those muscles so long ago so that we could flex three different masks and we didn't see it

we never saw it

but as time is not linear (more bubble shaped)

untill we saw it, and we lived in eachothers minds untill we both died. A splinter in me and a splinter in you. I saw you as you died, I saw your husband crying, I saw the love in his eyes and the dread that he had to live alone now, the children were about grown enough to all have moved out and I saw your children and their lovers weeping for you for as they said so many times, like if you were retarded in the hearing, you had been the most wonderful and kind of persons, you were going to be missed and like emily dickinson you saw the fog and it was rising and you saw me seeing you, an old man I was, am. We knew.

as we lay dying, I lived my life in you and you lived your life in me and those few seconds took years for when I woke up I was so damned tired and I went to bed and I found my love and I held around you

I have seen time bend space. I have seen the faces of the future bow down to and be annihilated by the creases of old. I have seen your make-up, I have seen your face right after you wake up, before you sit yourself down by one of those tables they always had in older movies or on a set, with a big clean mirror and shiny bulbs of light, giving you the sun you never see. I have seen you pick away leftovers from a night you don't remember.

I have seen you sitting there, contemplating what mask you should wear and you also go for the sepia coloured china, still glinting and still beautiful but worn with age and wisdom. I have seen in your eyes that you know that for some of the people out there, what mask one puts on isn't important for it's the weakest defense and they see you, like I see you.

You are a tragic story, one of those that comes forth in the light or from beneath dusty shelves, gathering from the people that always seem to walk through the room but never stop in it. You shine on the big screen and you look beautiful at home, you're one of the stories that no one wants to see end.

For a moment, I almost think you existed, like you weren't part of my imagination but that you were real but there is no reality where you go, you go far beyond the dimensions known to man. You bend time as you bend space, with a flick of the wrist you are the most capable of all magicians on any stage. You are a goddess with divine powers and what you want to see you see and even though your place is not part of the same physical plane as ours, we watch you with reverence, we see you as they used to see gods. We bow our heads to you and we yield with pleasure in our hearts.

We know you are not a god, we know that you are merely human because we see your mistakes and we judge you for no man has ever been kind to his god. Every man has always been afraid of their god and now you, we see you and we see your mistakes.

We are filled with fear.

Every now and then, someone will rear their head. They'll look beyond the dunes of sand and will wink away the sand still in their eyes. They will see the world as-is and will understand how it works and how they themselves work, in a local or national setting and most of them that we hear of will decide that there is something wrong with the planet, not with them and they will begin to create. A magician will come every hundred years or so. We already know his story, we already know her story. We've heard it for forever and if there's is still a spark of our desire to see social wrongs being undone we'll hear it again but most of us will fade, try to pretend it isn't so but some else will try to help him saying it won't work like this. That is not the face of god, god's face is different. You shouldn't do it like this, not these thoughts, wait, let me help you understand life.

They are the tragic fools of life. They are the teary eyed ending of a movie, a story mostly associated with indie films but also finding more and more room in the hollywood enviroment. The comedian will stand tall to us in the doomed to fail Watchmen movie as the twisted version of the story, the hero/antihero which sees his role and knows the end but moves on with it, does it. Some of us will identify ourselves with the comedian, but none will mourn him. Some philoshopher to step in, to talk about ethics and we'll see it makes sense but when was the last time we knew our philosophers by heart? How much did you learn those first six months in the university and how much do you remember now?

We don our glasses, walk outside and squint at the sun, taking time before seeing the morning fog. We see the love bukowski spoke of and we see it disappear and we listen to the children of flowers as they walk past and talk about love and spending the military budget on feeding the world. We sit ourselves down with our cup of coffee and our steaming coffee, taking in the air and the smells and how this life really feels like and we think about these things we've heard a thousand times, now reduced to slogans as they are recited with the designerwear hippies walking past us, any movement of any ideological worth will only pass the aesthetics on to further generations

"When the spirit wanes the form appears"
- Charles Bukowski

They combat the form with all their spirit, creating ripples across the known world and we see them in our daily lives, there where they walk amidst paper clippings and odd jobs, we see the world's attetion focus and we see someone give and then we see the world demanding more.
A head is stuck out and a head is chopped off. They try to bring sanity/something for the world but there they all stand like bamboo in the wind, a forest of everlasting ostrich, a sea of dunes where the birds are as far as the eye may see, with all their head down into the sand and there's one with the head up, there's one looking out at everything else and there


and every time the world forgets you forget about the world and you live in this state for as long as you can and there, the mirror breaks, the dream will continue and the two fingers will cleave the mirror and the halls will be laid bare and we will see the corridors passing in every direction and moving towards what is us and where we will be

it will not matter

the ostrich will still stand and see the others dwelling with their heads down in the sand and he/she/it won't think that they're the king among blind people

That ostrich is going to weep

Over the seriousness of the situation

Here they sit and sing, the sisters of Magdalene, here their idle hands sit and dream, peering out at the world beyond the walls, murmuring old memories twixt themselves, their hearts are no longer into it, the war has been lost and what war we forgot so long ago and our eyes are sore, our eyes are cold and we`re tired of watching these white walls, with flaking paint, with the same scripture to read

Every day.

God will come to us and god will save our soul, one god will see you like none else have seen you before and he will touch your spirit and set our souls ablaze and we will know ourselves for the first time and we will sit by his throne when our time comes because

Because what?

Because we were seen as we had seen HIM, we had seen the twelve seraphims, we had seen the seven thrones and we had seen the angels in the silver city, singing His praise, talking to him, treating him as he treats us, like a brother, one of the pack, in this world we venture in, where mortal sin is more common than mortal grace and we see the angels as they move around us, they see us and they smile, they wave to us as we live now, we were dead before because we didn´t see what the scripture told us, we were erring in our lives but now all is good

Because we were brought to understanding

Because we understood

Because we saw


That we were the chosen ones


We´ve seen hell and we´ve laboured for the devil, we´ve been part of creating hell and we have watched our boss every day and we´ve licking ourselves around our mouths, like a lion watching a lioness

From the outside of Jonestown we can hear the sisters Magdalene weep and sing, we can see you who dwell in there, we can see the lights in your windows and we can see how you tuck eachother in at night, your gentle caresses and your sweet strokes as the clock strikes twelve and we´ve only been here for 5 minutes but it feels like we´ve stood here throughout the whole of time

We´ve been here long enough so we walk away

"Imagination, life is your creation"
- Aqua, Barbie Girl

"Those who love life do not read. Nor do they go to the movies, actually. No matter what might be said,
access to the artistic universe is more or less entirely the preserve of those who are a little fed up with the world." 
- Michel Houellebecq, H.P. Lovecraft: Against Nature, Against Life


The disease is spreading and have been spreading for a long time. My teacher in history, one of the few hours we were reviewing the Nuremberg trials, told us that he had this pet theory about how soldiers that were marching along at preset pace while singing were gradually brainwashed not to think at all. As they were already housed within a military hierarchy and already indoctrinated to do as they were told, the marching and the singing would kill the rest of their free minds. One of those who usually didn't care, who sat in the back of the classroom and liked to brag about the fact that he had never read a book in his entire life began arguing. It wasn't really an argument, more him claiming that his faith did not allow him to believe that could happen, his father you see was in the military. Our teacher then told us that our assignments next week were to practice one of the old German songs sung by regiments during the second world war and goose stepping. Which we did for a whole hour. After that we got a new history teacher assigned to our class.

It is my firm and honest belief that the most accessible route to chaos is through creativity, that creativity is chaos(not necessarily the other way around) and that people in general are scared shitless of creativity because it is chaos. I also believe creativity is something you are born with or pick up at an early age and I see creativity as a disease like some people see autism as a disease. It is a buzzword these days where more and more private schools tell us that creativity can be learned. Further, I believe that within the main category of creativity, there are (atleast) two categories: One that corresponds with perfect pitch and one that corresponds with hard work. I know this is very black and white and there are countless other factors that make up the wholeness of how we are and how we function but humor me.

When you grow conscious of your own creativity, the first thing you discover is that you are very afraid of losing it. Even though you have not mastered it nor have you figured out how to use, you are aware that you are in possession of it, you have it and while you may have been used to trust your intuition at an earlier stage, creativity is something you can manipulate. You know that listening to different kinds of music get you in different kinds of moods. For instance, listening to Aquas Barbie Girl makes me want to torture something, maim it and take its worth away inch by inch and never letting it die. Listening to Barbie Girl while writing I made one piece of very poor limerick that made me giggle to myself which I subsequently deleted and half a chapter in my ongoing saga of 2012. Godspeed you black emperor made me begin to write 2012 and black parade made me continue writing it. Not that I have any love for either Aqua or My chemical romance but it has further cemented my belief in that creativity is one small part of chaos, detached.

Dagbladet, one of Norway's biggest papers and a used-to-be leftist paper turned tabloid the last twenty years have had a poll every year for the last five years asking by phone what job would be your dream job. The top three in all those five years have revolved around the classic (or what I associate with classic) ways of manipulating creativity, mainly the writer, the musician and the painter(the painter is an umbrella). Oh, all ye struggling hearts and artists! The romantic ideals of what one of these are. Fame, fortune, wit and whatnot. This is to be expected with peoples lack of ability to live themselves into other peoples lives, the reason why LARP is a cool idea but horrible when played out.

The spelling is probably completely retarded as it's an egyptian thing and it only matches what it hears like.

I'm becoming increasingly fascinated when it comes to eggs. After reading Hervé Thiis for most of the summer I've also gotten immense respect for the little eggs.

So, this is an easy little fucker to make, works well for hangover breakfasts or as a side.

You'll need 2 large white onions and 4 tomatoes and 6 eggs

Cut a brunoise of the onions and tomatoes, add it to a medium hot skillet, let ALL(ALL) water vaporize before you add the eggs and move it around a bit, adding salt and pepper as you go. Is damned tasty with cilantro if you happen to live in a country where you can actually get it fresh more than 2 months a year.

We live off the heat coming from the dormant dead, strewn in the fields of where we live and walk and work and love. We are disease that will destroy something, ourselves but we will also drag more into the drain. The maelstrom sitting at the heart of our minds, showing us images of times that have passed, times that went us by while we were in bed,  masturbating and thinking about high school crushes. We are the hope of humanity but we have not realized it yet we feel   inklings at times, small flashes of premonition and revered destruction, we see beyond the veil of everyday communcations and we see what matter inside the soul

Yet we know no words for it, we know no definitions that will fit our bills and we've been dreaming for so long we no longer differ between our waking hours or our sleeping hours. We have heard the saviour, we have heard the buddha and we have heard the mad man in the streets, filled with heroine and smashed aspirin, veins clogged with crystallized dreams of inner beauty and stupidity. We have walked too far away, we've entered the forest and when we scream our questions at the top of our lungs the answers fill us but we know them and we know of the prophecy of that man in the streets, he is screaming what we all know to be the truth

Filled with dreams we are, aimlessly wandering and seeing what can be seen on our students budget, learning that nothing of what they told us is important, only to them and their facade and how we will learn our own pieces of importance and we will protect our charade and include more and more into it untill we are no longer outcasts, no longer are we twitching dreams conjured by eating one too many turkish delights and sleeping next to the white witch

We have seen the portents and the signs, we know we were once harbingers of a new age but we didn't watch our backs, we didn't see far enough beyond and got stuck smoking grass and drinking booze for far too long and our souls are weeping but we can control our minds now, we can know what we want to know in the slumbers of our hells where we ride bareback through the mountains as we marvel

We wore our hearts on the sleeves and we knew that we would have a great impact upon the world but the world is ending we think, we've seen what you have to offer us but we gently told you no for in the heart of the empire that never died, seven children sleep
They have seen cruelty and they have seen pain where they harvest it through the dreaming planet and savour it like decent eiswein, knowing that this taste will end and so did our taste for the world end, at the bottom of the bottle and this beautiful blonde on the other side of the couch


We heard the whispers so many times that we forgot to pay attention, trying to stomach the ritalin that made us comprehend for more than a few seconds but we didn't really care anymore for we heard it so many times and after the comedian tells his joke

none are laughing

An easy lunch, quite good and very open for interpretation and changes. Note that this is a bastardized version for poor hungover students.

You'll need:
2 eggs
4 slices of bread
cheese (cheddar will work but anything with some bite and taste will suffice)
dijon

optional:
bacon
tomatoes
salad
a fist of basil leaves
leek
kecap manis

If you're going for the full package:

Assemble the slices of bread together with the cheese and the bacon. Toast it in any way you or prefer, oven or a tabletop toaster or between two hot bricks. Fry the eggs at low heat, 2/6 is what I use on my electric stove as it takes about a cigarette from I've cracked the eggs untill they're done.

Take a plate, add the amounts of salad you wish to eat. Add tomatoes, leek and basil on top of that. Sprinkle LIGHTLY with kecap manis, this stuff tastes alot and for this course we only want the sweet/salt undertones, no dominance. When the toasts are done, put them on top of the greens and add a thin layer of dijon on top of them. Put the eggs on the toasts so that it looks like two breasts made of bread and eggs. Sprinkle pepper and serve.

The too good men stand on top of residential building, downtown somewhere, the city, country or culture is not important and whether they be men or women are also not important. They are debating, rambling occasionally, drinking wine and smoking cigarettes, at the stage of life where they still talk about their parents much, needing acceptance, wishing that those who spawned them understand them. Dreams they have in plenty but every dream is vague and incoherent, has no definitive, has no way of being explained to the world without the loss of essence and the too good men think this and discuss this at length, invoking Burroughs and Gysins theories about language and communication being virus.

The too good men discuss at length and find that it isn't possible to translate themselves to any language, save for a multitude of languages reminding them of the auster story about the man trying to find a divine alphabet where "broken umbrella" has its' own word. Knowing all the languages in the world would perhaps make them see, would make them able to tell everyone else what these thoughts, dreams and hopes are, solidifying it into coherency and making of them a new strain. The men does not learn more languages in their lives, the men, as they grow older, figure out that there is indeed no need to spread these to others for they immediately think that if these thoughts also become public domain, what will they then use to fill?

These unpronounceable ideals, they find out before they die, are what kept them alive through the struggles, through the mazes and labyrinths of mind and matter, this was what they were, the stable part in the mingling of what people do, say or think. These were the feelings dreams had, the feeling colours and scents have untill a memory about a colour or a scent is remembered.
The too good men were those who were shaped in the fashion of mountains that would never be moved with faith or tools, those who would never quote "as above so below" but understood what was meant about it and saw beyond the veil of dull illusions but understood the importance of everyone elses dull illusions.

The people smile, stretching their fingers towards the sky on a lazy day in early summer. From the shattered shackles of frost where we came from, hopes, ideas and dreams are given birth to in the intermezzo of our souls deep sleep. In this world where you no longer feel heavy, no longer feel blue and out of place but the sun scorches the rain heavy clouds and from the white snow our white skin is reborn and the light burns it all away, there is no darkness to hide in and there is no neon light which we can find and confirm how we look good, from what angle for every blitz that has ever rained and we peer into their eyes, as they lie on our side out in the grass and we sneak a peek over the book or in our beautiful grand bed where we snatch a view when he is asleep or outside, where she's come over with lunch at work and she's just standing there looking into the window, not noticing us standing on the inside untill she does and there are these elements of which her eyes are made of and we want to delve deeper inside, we want to catch a glimpse of when she invites herself to tea and scones inside her soul

We want it revealed but we are lost in labyrinths of skin, broken balloons with cracked skin with nothing on the inside and we see the complexities, no longer wishing to prolong the unhealthy atmosphere and as we crack them open to see the insides, the air is beaten out of us, a strong punch to the stomach and small bubbles made of rainbow material obscures our line of sight and like the magician who opened the doors to heaven and hell, we are given a second to think before we must act, a last defining moment of where our godhood used to be for in the beginning there was nothing but someone made the light

We feel the skin hunger upon ourselves as we tell ourselves a tale of who we are in the context of their understanding and we prod at them, trying to see where they go and how they go and we don't really fear or hate these people for they are beautiful, the most beautiful of people, they are our brothers, sisters and we love them but we have outgrown our naivete, we've become too old to be large for every freak we meet for there are no treasures behind your walls of fort knox, contained behind bars and doors of impenetrable iron and metal we see the waxed dull surface of the glass that shone so perfectly on its day of erection but does no longer and we distantly perceive the doors inside the cathedral, the guards making their rounds but they never sneak off for a cigarette but stand there, guarding your heart

How was YOUR summer vacation? What did you do this summer and what did you think of it? Did you go to an island with your family or were you working this summer at the local mall? What did you think during the summer? Did you read any books or watched any movies? Describe your summer using any forms of communication!

Death warmed us that summer. It was chilly and cold at first, it was filled with uncertainty, doubt cast shadows from the docks and into our minds and it took a while but death got there, each and everyone of us filled with this heavy fear, not knowing what to anticipate but like the first wind of autumn, we knew it when we felt it

it was a different summer
we couldn't speak of it in terms of good nor bad because we were living in it and it was a summer where we destroyed more than we created and it felt odd walking around in it, this summer, it was a strange one and we who were in it would not understand it untill years had passed, we'd gained what we wanted to gain and lost what we wanted to

our dreams fell like colossus infront of the archipelago, our dreams were silent and dry, not dry like grass or jellyfish in the sun but dry like old mens hands, rasping with mental exhaustion
It was supposed to be the most beautiful of summers and it was supposed to be the most horrible of summers and we knew when we embraced, peeled it open like a ripe orange picked with hands still called nigger by their master before the fruits of our life were shipped across the ocean, to the origins of the master
To the heart of the empire that never ended and twixt the heart and the soul, we sat

We thought we were feeling and we thought we were living life like it should, like it was on the ads, our version, a singleserving life with action, speed, hot women, snakes and lesbian sex and our cigars were no longer rolled between virgin thighs but our caffeine drinks were rolled between virgin tits

We sat numb in limbo as we watched the world, discussed it sometimes when we'd had enough to drink, our minds garbling words out at the audience with a sleight on the head like hawking, jumbled words lisped through pussylips drenched in the cheapest of booze and there they'd sit, summergirl or summerboy, just as passed out but with parched lips
We sat by the fire and let Death warm us. The flames were cold and the summer smelled like musk and guano instead of chanel and lime and we buried our hearts here, in the flesh of mistress summer and she was different this year

Her garments were orange, white and khaki and she flew through the air because the air was her domain, the air belonged to her and her golden hair which curled when it hit the ground as she descended like an angel on sammaels side before the fall cursed as she was with deep furrows of knowledge

We were waiting for the fall, for the change that had hit us in the head in late spring and would only catch up to us a few months from now and the beauty of this summer is that it ended quickly, not mercilessly like an axe through your head but quickly like the seconds in the lobby of the dentist

We were maturing we realized, it was one of those summers when you learn something about life you'd rather learn in the fall so you could brace yourself for the winter with newfound knowledge and like love and hate it was dulling us, making us loose our sheen

For we realized, death was change, nothing more and it was one of those summers where we wanted to sit around the fire, feel its warmth, hold a hand like a perfect champagne glass over a perfect champagne tit and smoke joints and drink vino shitto as the sun rose up and the world smelled like lime and vanilla and chanel no 5 and the sea and the shit from the seagulls and seaweed and selfdead fish washing ashore and we never went to these shores that summer
       for these shores were known to us too good, we'd basked in their glory and it was time to move on




This was a poem about my summer. Describe in any way you want your holiday, accuracy isn't needed if it's a good story.

Come on!

-You know you've got the most beautiful body I've seen in years?
-This old thing? The legs are too long and too thin and the hair is hell to maintain.
-But you got this presence you know?
-Presence has nothing to do with the physical.

It was a factory, quite big and with wheels and cogs all over the place, the machines on the inside were flexing their muscles as the sun rose over the mesas and they paused and beheld it, saw it progress through life, saw it on course to where it was heading, to the dreams of all those it would awake in its' fluctuating flow through the lives of all of us and like a fine person it would create wars, stirr rebellions and revolutions, make everyone believe in magic and the darkness but it wasn't long before it'd gotten too far over the mesas and it was yet again just the sun and the machines relaxed and returned to their work.

The work would continue for days and weeks the man in the top floor discovered as he was given a moment of clarity and felt a sadness upon him. He saw the city from his office, he saw the sprawling streets and the buildings and the synergy inbetween them all, he saw beauty in the concrete, steel and glass. He had a window he could open, with a little balcony on the outside which you could get through the janitor's office and outside was a chair, a pellet rifle and pellets and every day between 1200 and 1300 he'd sit out there and shoot whatever came into his fancy or mood.

The machines saw the world as a complex cloud of superimposed minds they could not comprehend, a sort of vague chaos that wasn't programmed but learned and stored in the dna, machines were somewhere else, too far behind to matter in our intuitive calculations of the universe. We saw the machines the way we've always seen machines, small helper boys, retarded little helpers doing what we've grown tired of doing. The rise of the machines, the conflict of Frankenstein vs Monster will not be born in hate or jealousy nor will it be born from love or vengeance but it will come through an anthropological curiousity and we won't die but we'll slide into the obscurity as other civillizations have disappeared under the waves and all we hear from Atlantis are vague legends.

The world will end in 2012 and after that we will forget the Mayans, their place in history will be someone else, older chinese dynaties or däniken theories and as we tug towards the time which they will refer to as the age where they believed in xenu, we will after enough time take the tribal places as we become a tribe instead of a civillization, we become barbarians and we will not be judged as we judged, not cordoned off and ignored but they will see us on display at a museum, a wandering exhibition and the machines will be able to see us in new york, tokyo and paris

There is no madness further, we've grown beyond the barrier and we know, not where it might lead or what it is but there's this, this old ballad that keeps going on repeat

"O see ye not yon narrow road,
So thick beset with thorns and briars?
That is the path of righteousness,
Though after it but few enquire."

"And see ye not that broad, broad road
That lies across the lily leven?
That is the path of wickedness,
Though some call it the road to heaven."

"And see ye not that lovely road,
That winds about the fern'd hillside?
That is the road to fair Elfland,
Where thou and I this night must ride."

(The ballad of Thomas the rhymer)

"6 apparently has no distinct image." - Wikipedia on Daniel Temmet


The elephant man sits on the ledge of his bed, his one foot scraping at the raw dead tree under it while the other hangs dangling, might have been a beautiful picture, might have been something people would want to see, the elephant man sitting lonely and crying but no tears come out for there are no canals, there is no salt water left in his body and he feels his skin cracking and drying up like paint rushed in fast forward and the elephant man is tired, young and tired filled with despair and the entropy of the situation

The musicians have grown docile, lingering behind the machina that taught them, silken clad riders in charcoal and yellow, dispersed through the night in a scene from a movie made some time around the 1990s and they do not look back as they ride out and leave the castle behind them, they do not look at their wives or their pretties as they stand on the wall and watch for the grieving women have always accepted our creed in their hearts and have always stuck apart, the cluster of lonely souls there, moving to become smaller dots as the skies come crashing down into the world and the sky will fall into their hearts but the men ride and after half the day they speak of the desire to fuck and drink and are filled with the love of their newfound freedom and freedom it is as they chase the drums of war and there is a flaw in all of us that keeps us small, containable

Yes, you hear the rush inside your heart as you read, you know this and you've heard it before but you want to hear it again for it makes you feel something, something beautiful is dragged inside the corridors of your mind and you hear the chains rattle and the balls knock over vases and other inhabitants and you want this rush, this temporal loss of control where you can give in to the mind you've created yourself unknowingly for you always view your actions retrospectively, everything is past you tell yourself and we've been made to be containable

By ourselves. Not a hard concept to grasp is it? Quite natural too. You can be larger than life but there's nothing in it for you untill you heed the call of the masses that drone your name and you want to stand there on the grand stage with thousands of fans knowing who you are for you imagine that during those hours you are complete because someone knows you

hears the faint whispers at night

Yet, that is also containable, isn't it? The census of the norm, the ideas that created revolutions and wars decades and millennias ago, they are part of your backbone now, they're a part of you as the revolutions and wars were uncontainable when they happened, the idea you have is that in the olden days they were all romantics and wars were fought over pretty faces while now you muse, wars are fought over oil, before that politics and before that religion. You've grown so accustomed to the idea of war that war is natural, hell, what you understood of Darwin in high school gives you a clear understanding of this, doesn't it?

The papers lie crumpled in the corridor, covered in white, scissors and rocks. The dreams they were given were small and the potlatch didn't last long, the cultures clashed and the dreams were all but satisfactory. In rare cases of a potlatch, tribes would raze and burn their village as an ultimate gift.

The predictability, synchronicity or just good oldfashioned dullness you experience every day isn't because you're like grant morrisons explanation of the Joker, an advanced idiot savant who has no personality but has to rebuild himself every day, what you experience you experience because it's what you chose, right? There is no difference between fate and free will, not as abstract concepts and not as that which you relate to the words, the stories and histories because they are both containable, you know the mechanics of how they work.

Bacteria.

It will be a waking dream, not the kind you get when you snooze in your car or at work or the silent awkward moments before you fall asleep but it will be a scent and a memory wrapped into one and you will see it with some part of your eye and it will feel like it's a memory filled with the leaking faucets around the house, dripping through your stairs and seeping into the walls, making each and everyone of them moist and soft to the touch, like green brownies left on the stovetop for so long, back when you were 17, dropped out, smoking what you could get your hands on that would pass as weed or hash and it will be one of those moments when you stand at the bar and you'll order a manhattan and you get the distinct deja vu feeling and this is what this will be like only different.

You'll think of it as more, further probing into the world your mind inhabits and when you were little your brain hurt when learning both math and english in the same day and you thought the world your brain inhabited was a dark little cave but you were never afraid of what was in that cave and you were never afraid of what was under your bed, inside your closet or hiding behind bushes on unlit roads early evening in the winter
You weren't afraid of what they were afraid of because you never knew what you were afraid of, you knew your body could bristle any time of fear for there was this dam building itself inside the cavern you discovered when you were little and all you knew was that all the world will die today

From the first time someone saw you and told you they knew who you were and they had seen you to the last time you said I love you falsely, everything passes through the corridor. Itself as sterile as possible with janitors working to maintain the corridor like that and with endless rooms and more corridors branching into themselves, creating this beehive where every room is connected with every room, everyone with the same sickness can talk to eachother about their sickness and those with that disease can talk to others with that disease but the first corridor is long, goes through the heart of the hive, connects it, makes it hum and squeak when it's supposed to hum and squeak and at the end of the corridor, where we've headed beyond operating theatres and crying wives and husbands and mothers and father, far beyond the blood donors and far beyond the hurt and heartthrob for those working here we find the last door, the one we'll step through and be enveloped into the light like neo was

Your heart was hollow before we began this and your soul was a husk, stolen from the sides of qlippoth, like a father will steal food from his son but you do remember, don't you? It was us. We began this together, we sat out on the porch and we drank something cheap and we were smoking poor hash but we had a lot of it and we'd made brownies and we knew we could stay here for a week and we both knew what we wanted and how we wanted the other of us to see this week, how we were planning to live together for the rest of our lives and it doesn't stick if you have a weekend but a week when you're seventeen with no plans, no future, no desire for an immediate future and no nothing. Just a cabin in the hills, an ounce of shit, a bible and this girl

Who you didn't really keep in touch with, one week passed away swiftly and you were down in the big city and left all your dimes on the greyhound and your heart was stuck in your throat and you felt uneasy but this wasn't the fear you'd been looking for, that had shyed away all your life at every crossroad like ibsens bøygen, there were none that wanted to put your soul into the spoon, fire up the spoon and melt your soul

All the world'll end today you'll believe when you grow up for those are the only words that have ever truly reverberated through your bones and I remember mine was linger for that first time I heard that my nose began to bleed heavily and I felt the heart collapse in my brain and I remembered this deja vu sensation and all I really cared for was more

It's a beautiful belly, the kind of belly you only see when you're watching the telly and there's this little diamond stud in her belly there and men from the Future tell you that this, this is the actions of the robots from Mars. You believe them, feeling a sudden pang of guilty conscience and you feel filthy but it's something else growing on the inside of you and you see it for the first time now, you see what's going on but you can't touch it but it's there, an anti infestation built from strictly your own components, a little machine inside the god and while we build and toil on that machine for the rest of our lives without getting further we never forget that they weren't our blueprints

They were handed out along with our hardhats and boots

But LO! There! On the horizon! Do you see the sun like a pregnant belly immersed in water? Bobbing gently, telling us things, making us see things. The birth is happening and we're nervous standing in the room outside clutching a fake cohiba which is cracking under our fingers and we see ourselves anew in the turqois of the medical world and we storm in and we see the head and we've seen it so many times so we never realized but there it was, like a cloning process straight from Dr. Mengele we created copies of ourselves and unleashed them upon the world with only one goal, one thing to keep us from kicking and screaming at this stage in life and it is hope

Problem was we knew Hamlet too well and we'd found our task inside the belly of the world and we saw behind the machinations and we saw past and through the aesthetics untill we came to lead and our xray eyes wouldnt work but we saw it there, the inner workings, the god machine and we see it and we live with it and some make shitty interpretations and call it art but we were here, cut from one umbilical we attached ourselves to another in fear of falling further down

We'd found our abyss, we seen into their dark and we didn't stand up to it, we didn't fight it, we didn't philosophize it away and we didn't walk away because we'd found the abyss and we became best friends

is that they liberally use the terms "meatbag" and "fleshling".

You see their eyes, dull but with the love of life and a fire burning twixt the expressions of their soul and the hard wirings of their brains. Pain does not exist in their lives for they haven't yet garnered enough years, enough thoughts and experiences to feel the fear in the marrow of their bones. Fear will grow to be a cavern, the same cavern where the first child was born and the cavern where the first blood was shed, the fear that will grip your heart when you make a decision that doesn't impact your own life but the lives of those around you, unknown to you or not.

You see their eyes but drink past it untill you see their asses, their hips and stomachs, their beautiful long legs and stunning tits, still covered in unmolded fat. The potter's son has come home and he is stroking his cock with his mind, yearning for a release he know won't come and instead of trying to find it somewhere completely different, the potter's son seeks his catharsis among the thighs of the known.

In the cthulhu mythos, there are allusions and ideas to the fact that the world is a factory, a processing plant for weapons and earlier in my own life, I believed this, it was the only coherent explanation that would fit my hateful image of my surroundings and I kept it with me for some time untill I discarded it as something completely unlikely as the effectiveness of the factory would be quite shitty. Most of the weapons produced would only work if launched from a trebuchet and then only for the glee of it, not because we wanted to see the walls of minas tirith being torn down by big blobs of fat.

She's looking at you now. Glances, small and quick but you know they're there as she turns her head and you've already combed the area and you find nothing pleasing to your eye, there are no beautiful people here and there are no people that would gather her interest for her eyes are alight, not with soul or fire but with the intent of proving herself to the world, which is the same as proving herself to herself.

You're what? 28? 29? Past the stage where you only mutter a punchline of how age is of no importance, only love and love will span the decades and the millennias and will reach from one star to the next and put its fist through the big bang and find the yin to your yang. Tomorrow will be one of those days where you wake up and want to die but instead you buy a pint of häagen dazs and watch romantic comedies untill you fall asleep with a jar of peanutbutter and a package of m&ms in your lap but tonight

Tonight is a feisty cunt, a dried out feisty cunt you're going to drown in an unsavoury blend of tequila and champagne, whiskey and grappa. Tonight, life is like a ripe orange and you won't peel it, you'll pick it from its tree and you'll eat through the skin, not bothering to zest it and you'll taste the bitter and the sweet at the same time and you'll think that this is what life should feel like, this is what life should be like, turned to 11 at every cathedral, bus station, gas station and pub.

You do not wish to think anymore and who is there to blame you, who is left to tell you that you should think and ponder and grow upon yourself, to tell you that from the age of destruction one has the rubble to build or that after the age of destruction has passed, life is dead and all is merry? There is none.

In Gotham City they chose Harvey Dent and in the Middle East they chose Jesus and in Graceland they chose Elvis.

There is no duality left in the aspects of god, there is no duality left in the aspects of man. We've eradicated it and we seek unity, we seek one voice, one mind and one frame of reference. We do not seek to fuck to blow our minds, we do not seek to do drugs to blow our minds, we do not seek to work to blow our minds, we seek the minds white picket fences and apple pies cooling off in the windowsill.

We seek to drug away the hole in our soul that could potentially get us to do things we wouldn't regret and we seek to fuck eighteen year old children every night because it's the best we can hope for and we seek to be remembered, we strive to be seen in a world that is growing tired of seeing but we kill and maim for fifteen minutes fame (not intended) and we get there, to the promised land and we snort cocaine off of tanned thighs and we smoke weed with people who call everyone niggers and we stand infront of a crowd that knows our name and we grow rich as the men in the shadows grow wealthy.

even though it will dwindle and die away into the wastelands of ts eliot, you should all know I love you. Because, I met you. The other day. It was thursday, last week, I was getting back into working, trying to make a decent sourdough and we were all so fresh in the start with this new menu that wasn't on the top of the shelves, shitty aspargus with what they called a sauce vierge and salad and they gave it lots of french names but it tasted like shit but then there was the monkfish which was quite marvellous if it had been a beef for it's not fucking fish, it's a fucking white beef, it's good but not worth the cost before the fondant and the fondant is excellent, it's very very good but I had to leave early when I argued that we couldn't call it


"DEATH BY CHOCOLATE"


which isn't the same term over there as it is here, we're like your 2002 version of that but even though you believe in time or its linearity of whether you see everything as skittles bubbling through your head, it's still a bad name

we were all the dreams once, all the rage inside our heads, peeking at the outside, knowing well we would meet no understanding, spending years building our skin and shells tougher, heading for a greater unknown but at the time no longer caring of what THEY mean, THEY being ofcoursely what we wanted it to be, what we needed THEM to be, for us to survive and thrive in the enviroment we KNEW we needed. A tomato plant knowing it needs that other pot, jumps over to it late at night, stomps the red basil down and thrives

we know what we need but we don't know why. In the beginning we know why because we do the opposite of what our teachers or what the government or what the man or what the GMAN in hl2 tells us to but most of us are beyond that, we know that makes us easy adversaries and a thing that might have been our births, might have been our conditioning or whatever, we're not easy

sec, going out for a cig

where was i? oh yeah, I met you. hah. I met all of you. You were slender, tall, a beautiful figure with small tits and you had this goofy grin. I was done with mine for the day and I sat down on the outside of the place with a beer and a gammel dansk (which is more like jäger than fernet, but better than both) and wrote in my little book, the sun was still out and I saw you from a distance, noticed you among your retarded friends who'd ordered 30$ shitty pizzas earlier that evening and from that order I knew you were the one who ordered the bouillabase (?) and you had long brown, almost black hair, cut in the front, wearing second hand stuff mixed with the cheaper dior and h&m, smelling like a woman should, chanel no 5. You'd been drinking hemingway dry martinis while everyone else had been drinking gintonics and cubalibres but you'd retained your style, alcohol for you was like being interested in international politics or how to make the perfect bruschetta, just an interest.

Your eyes were ablaze and they gave me the fear so I kept to myself, writing nothing but shit, looking your way but you stopped by on the way to the bar and I paused as I rarely do when I'm writing seriously and your face wasn't beautiful, bordering normal, grey mass, greyface, A4 etc but you had the most perfect lips and you formed the most perfect sentence:

Write me into it

and I couldn't. My brain stopped but my hand drank the rest of the beer and the gammel dansk and I trailed behind, went to the bar with you, stood there amazed only looking, jaw open and drooling untill I ordered a manhattan and we sat down on the outside, the manhattan and the sidecar and we talked, we talked for a long time and when everyone else went home I brought you inside and we drank free, talking to the chefs, waiters and waitresses, shared stories of retarded customers but you and I sat there and talked and when the chefs went home we were the last and the manager gave me they key and it was just you and I, opening first a bottle of chablis before stumbling to a bottle of amarone, not too drunk to care because we never cared about that anyhow and it took that bottle of chablis and half the amarone before we frenched, dirty, like we did when we were 16, not knowing what we did

and you

you fucked like I'd thought you would, semi-kinky filled with fear and a degree of selfloathing but damn was it good, it was perfect


Summer vacation continuing, just thought I'd share this little one with you darlings.

On a more personal note:

I do not know if you care to want to know this but I'll lay it upon you anyhow. I have lied to you and while I now feel shame and disgust, at that time, I was too fucked up in my own skull to even understand it and it took me three pills of good old fashioned ecstacy to understand it, it took a kiss from a woman I might be falling into a healthy love with and it took a manhattan from a bartender I've had a crush on since I moved to this city, but I lied to you. I do not do these things for you, I don't do any of what you find in or kill me for you, it was a lie and I have no reason to defend it.

I am also not a discordian, I've never been. Not by my own design, never by my own design. What I write here aren't rants, what I write here is the filth that's clogging my brain. I could never write a good rant, I couldn't be filled with the awesome hate Roger has or ECH had, I could never have Cains brain how much I'd love to, I could never find the essence of things like Thurnez could, never would I rhyme like Sillycybin, never would I be funny like Cram and never could I see things the way vex sees things. I understand it, fly vision, everyone's integrated into everyone else and as a whole something is created.

I mentioned in one of my things that when truth comes to you, it isn't the aha!, it's the slow tearing of nerves, the slow tearing of your mind into extinction, it hurts and it burns and this day has been a moment of truth. I've remembered much I'd previously forgotten and will, both learn and forget for the mind is a fickle thing. This board and this place has always been my escape and it will for quite a while be.

For a while I hate you all, because I'm not reborn into godhood, I'm not on the vibe of getting to be the new buddha, fuckit, I'm not on the vibe to improve myself and I have little desire to improve anyone else for I've never seen improvement. I have seen the sheep up on the mountains and I've led them many places but I never lead them to dangers, I've made them see the green pastures where they can grow fat before someone'll eat them.

I'll be going away for the summer but I'll return as I've always had and there's one point of love I have for you here, the same points of hate everyone else has for pd.com/forum. I'll never fit into you in a social context but that was never important for me, all I'd ever need was to see and experience your minds and even though you are not snowflakes, you're gods among insects.





Before I bore myself to sleep:

We'd gotten to that part of the dream, the part I'll tell you that I love you, that part where I'll see beyond who you'd want to be and who you try to be and even though I never got that far in life they equipped me with perfect vision and with my eyes closed I see you standing there, watching on the edge of what you never wanted to peer at, what you never wanted to lift your head to percieve before you try to mirror me.

I was born with an understanding of communication, I know when you lie and I know why you lie and beyond these veils of defense, who are you, where did your personality end and where did your psyche begin? What can change the nature of a man?

The routines grow duller before your eyes, contemplating suicide aged 38, seeing your life up in smoke because you did what THEY told you to do and you've realized it was your own fault but you still haven't grasped that it is you who defines who the THEY are because you're still talking about the boss, still talking about the man, still trying to prophesize (?) a belief you held when you were sixteen and already then you found the pinnacle of civillization and you knew what was wrong and you know what is right and you've seen these answers so many times they've already become fnords and deep inside your heart is a seed growing, that's been growing for all your life since you read the first book of rand al'thor and like robert jordan believed, you believe that time is cyclical, you claim to see it in the trends and fashions, you see everything repeating itself and it makes so much sense and

you never made it, did you, you've cursed your makers for so long, you've cursed those who said that time is linear for so long because that isn't the way you feel it, you've never felt it like that and the funny thing is, noone else have felt it like that because it isn't linear, we were just trained that way as it would be most practical when taught in the schools, universities and work and it is, it is

but that kiss didn't happen yesterday, that beer wasn't drunk four years ago, you'll still talk about those things and you'll repeat them in your future but your mind isn't grouped like that, your mind doesn't work like that because that kiss is the same kiss your mother gave you when you were a wee little one and that beer was the same beer your dad opened in your teeth before he kicked your ass but you'd like to forget

you'd love to forget

a clean slate, something new, for this is rotten, this isn't what you wanted, this isn't what you hoped and dreamed for, this isn't what you fought for, this isn't what it should be, this isn't red, this isn't blue, this isn't green and it ain't yellow nor purple

this is everything but what you wanted


you're too late now and you know, you know it won't matter because soon now, it's here, here it is actually now, I must've been drunk or my timing was completely off but I can see it through the window now, I can see every love you turned down of fear because it might have been the real love and you though you were too young and she nor he nor it would understand it but it's here, peering at us, god is watching us from above and this is his time, these are his hours

yeah, here she comes, here comes the sun

"... When you send me a pulse
Feel a wave of new love
Through me
I'm dressed in white noise
You know just what I want
So please ...

I'm in love, I'm in love
I'm in love with a strict machine

I'm in love, I'm in love
I'm in love with a strict machine"

  - Goldfrapp, Strict Machine


Did it? Did it last past september or was it already broken? Was there a heart in your socket or did I fuck something else? Did you love me? Did I love you? Did any of us ever love eachother or were we simply in love with eachothers strict machines? And now, here we go, count it down, we're in love love love, we're in love, we're here and in love

with a strict machine

and we talk pretty in pink, our glasses once filled with kir royal towering over us as we wait for the next guy with a champagne sabre and our love wasn't founded in me, wasn't founded in you or any of us but we found love in the bottle, we found love in the prescription pills and the non prescription ones and these things just happened, we just happened all of us, see buddha there, yeah, right over there, a ghost with the same aura as obi wan, soon we'll cover the world in tacky ghosts but we'll smile and we'll go down into that bottle together because our love isn't like anyone elses, our love is unique because there is no love, there are no butterflies, there is no nervousness

there is only the strict machine

we'll go down and drunk and we know the hollow thuds and thunks that follow the act of love but we have no need to see our souls touch, we have no need to expose our dna for while the soul is pure and can be redeemed, our dna can't, our dna is hideous with a hideous marketing scam attached to it but it doesn't matter now does it, we didn't fall in love for this moment or these moments, we fell in love so we could be our own strict machines

as the voices tower and there's this drunk over by the window at the end of the bar, drinking whiskey sours because he wanted to be tom waits but couldn't stomach it

like everyone else couldn't stomach it

because you'll have to learn to drink whiskey, you'll have to go through unless you have that vicious talent for drinking and there's no peer pressure for that, like there's coffee, like there's work for whiskey my darling liebchen loved one, is like love

is like life

we put you out on the streets and hope you'll learn this shit yourself and while we prepare you for work through school we can't really prepare you for love as we can't prepare you for life and we can't prepare you for reality because it's your job

fuckwad

it's the job of your perfect soul and your imperfect dna and it's the most important one but I've seen you, I see you all the time and let me tell you a secret because you always want a secret, you always want a revealation so you can relate this, so you can relate, subject to subject

I'm afraid. I'm filled with fear. Most days I don't walk outside my apartment, I stay inside and I live in my bubble, I'd rather not talk to you whether you're a discordian or whatever the fuck you are and I tried long and hard to change, I tried to be the bubbles in my prosecco but you're just not worth it, your thoughts aren't worth shit and for me, your thoughts outweigh your actions for your actions are always up for interpretation and there's so many theories I can't be arsed to see, can't be arsed to understand to understand you because you're afraid too, we're all afraid here

but you

you

yeah, you


you're afraid of your thoughts, you're afraid of the revolution that's going to happen in your head and you don't want it, you'd rather find praise for what you do and by all means do it for you bring entertainment to our worlds and it'll make me happy



Some conspiracy theory once asked; when was the last time you had a thought that wasn't put there by THEM?

So, when was it? When did you follow the golden rule of magick? When did you ever create something out of nothing?

nono, don't answer, it'd spoil the fun, we all grew up with legos, so let's play, let's build bricks, let's create a wall on someone elses foundation

and let's fall in love, let's fall in love with that strict machine

"Got woken in the night,
by a mystic golden light.
My head soaked in river water.
I had been dressed in a coat of armor. They called a horse out of the woodland.
"Take her there, through the desert shores."
They sang to me, "This is yours to wear. You're the chosen one, there's no turning back now."

The smell of redwood giants.
The banquet for the shadows.
Horse and I, we're dancers in the dark.
Came upon the headdress.
It was gilded, dark and golden.
The children sang.
I was so afraid I took it to my head and prayed.
They sang to me, "This is yours to wear. You're the chosen one, there's no turning back."
They sang to me, "This is yours to wear. You're the chosen one, there's no turning back."

There is no turning back.
There is no turn.
There is no turning back.
There is no turn.
There is no turning back.
There is no turn"

    - Bat for Lashes, Horse and I


You're feeling important, you've grow out and beyond of the haze, you remember this. You remember the feeling, you remember the situation, you remember what you were exactly at that time although you have no idea where you were, what you'd drunk and what you'd taken but it was early summer, late spring like now and you were going home for the holidays, renting your room out and you'd spend a month with your family and a month working before you'd head out into some grand new adventure, where were you going? Tokyo? Mexico City? Hanoi? You spoke about it earlier that night to this guy and you told him much of you, more than he could absorb and you grew blue as he started to recommend Bali, he started to recommend Lanzarote, Costa del Sol. You grew tired in your heart of all these men who'd been stereotyped so long ago and you thought they were like victims of a car crash, sitting catatonic repeating It doesn't happen over and over

because everyone is an individual, everyone believes they are an individual and it never dawned upon any of us that we're just a part of a great uncontrollable mass, humanity is a goat in the woods with a thousand young and perhaps it was this dawned upon you when you stood there, completely silent letting the music vibrate through you and something inside you died but it didn't really matter anymore because it was a thing of fakery, it was a plastic flower that had been rotting for quite a while and it ascended into a cloud of dust, mud and flame and you realized you were part of the thousand young, you realized that these are the uniformed masses and you are part of it and you see no reason any longer to not be a part of it, you see the behemothic beast in your mind and you see its restraints, you see the openings from the back of its mouth because the beast always cared for its own and you understood this already when you were sixteen, bright little fucker you were but you connected the dots now, you've seen beyond a veil you put into the equation for yourself and

what you see is so beautiful, so controlled, so simple and stupid, too simple for you to have understood so long ago because the beast never cared for your thoughts, the beast never cared for you, who you were for the beast told you already so long ago that in the beginning there wasn't the word, there was the act and as long as you act properly, dress properly, smile properly, talk about the proper things at work and even though you understand the futility of wearing a mask, so few do and a mask is the simplest thing in the world to don and you don it so perfectly and years pass by and you've worn your mask, you've been following their simplest rules while breaking those that are important to maintain but when everyone see you they see your perfect resume, they see a worker who's always five minutes early and always to count on and your hair grows white, your tits sag beautifully and your children are getting married next month and you sit in the couch with your husband and you look at him from the corner of your eye and you fell a tear

standing in the same place, that old chamber of epiphanies and there's this rushing feeling, wind blowing against you, from the west and you're sweating and you climb your horse and you hear the lament of the children all around you and even though you always thought that song was about some fantasy shit you hear the drums in the back of your head and the drums go wilder, they're gaining momentum and hitting crescendo like the way you always felt that song should've and you ride, your horse and you upon the plains where gold meets darkness, where the soul twists out of place and time feels natural and nonlinear and you wear their crown which once was worn by the son of man, which was once worn by an enlightened outside in the gardens and you feel all their stories in these lands of twilight

fear was keeping the reins, fear was what kept you from falling over for you still heard them, you heard the lonely choir and they chose you because of what you are and never what you did

older you feel as you near the castle walls still hearing the wail of the children and you know there is no turning back, you know deep inside yourself what you were meant to be, what you want yourself to be but you clutch your hands in fear and not in courage, love nor bravery but the gate opens and out the riders come and you remember a time when everything used to mean something but that's in a country long forgotten now, buried in time and failing flesh and you've gone beyond it now

you went beyond the action

and you found the word

"TIME IS NOT IMPORTANT, ONLY LIFE IS IMPORTANT"
      - The crushed alien from the 5th element


Time, is not on your side, time, is not your friend because time will bring you what you want the least, time will bring you death and the complete annihilation of everything you worked for but you celebrate the passing of time and if I didn't know you did this purely because you like to get drunk and because you like to uphold traditions you've never questioned or tried to make better or different I might have given you, humanity as a whole, an inch of respect.

But you didn't and you won't. Robert Anton Wilson died today or rather, the last parts of Wilson that I kept with me disappeared and vanished into the fresh morning air in the park where I was sitting, reading a book, drinking wine and smoking cigarettes. It was one of the first things I learned from him so it had certain nostalgic value and would eventually be what got me on the course of discordianism and it struck me that I'd built the foundation on my worldview at it and never look back and changed it. I was around 19 at the time and I went to a community college, learning some photography but more about this world and there was this dude in the text class. He was older than most of us and me and him fell into a hate/love relationship which was the most interesting thing about that year. I never loved him and I do not love him now, entrenched as he is in the life he loves and the traditions he always wanted to tear down.

His name was Rodney and his middlename was Best. Both names his father had gotten for him from soccer players he had a boyish infatuation with. I've come to understand he was a rare breed of discordian, even for a guy who had the erisian date of when he was born tattooed on his arse as he was quite right-wing and conservative, he was a boy who wanted to be a Man. None of it clung to me although I had my bout with lolpinealgland23OMGLOLHESFUCKINGANAPPLE later on when I devoured most of Wilsons texts but there was this one piece of shitty internet graphic hacked together on a warezed copy of photoshop, rasterbated and stretched the way only amateurs with access to the school printer can. It said Every man, woman and ostrich is a tsar.

I'd wish it was true and I've been wishing it to be true for the last five years and I think that there's a bigger chance that every ostrich in the world is a tsar than any man or woman to be. Let's take a classic example:

"No one is born with a stare like Vladimir Putin's. The Russian President's pale blue eyes are so cool, so devoid of emotion that the stare must have begun as an affect, the gesture of someone who understood that power might be achieved by the suppression of ordinary needs, like blinking. The affect is now seamless, which makes talking to the Russian President not just exhausting but often chilling. It's a gaze that says, I'm in charge."     - Adi Ignatius, TIME

Here we have a literal tsar and you see his eyes like you've seen his eyes and they are cold and filled with frost and steel and resolve and madness. A controlled madness, like the madness of Hunter S. Thompson. There is an edge somewhere in our world. It is invisible and you only realize it's there when you've marched around for far too long or flung yourself over it.
You need time to become a tsar unless you're gifted with the talent and so few are of that breed. So few are talents in whatever discipline and so few want to find their edge and feel it because it's better going comfortable and I hate myself for saying this for it's been said so many times and now I realize, in moments of realization when your hate pushes through your teeth and you'd want rabies just so you could go out and club people without worrying about that sentence afterwards.

Some crave happiness, some crave alcohol or drugs, some crave love and hate but noone craves to know where the edge lies, noone craves to know the limitations of their brains or souls because they have better use for their time.

I have landed the perfect job for me and myself and even though it means being stuck on an island in the midst of fuckall, it's an island in the southern part of norway so weather should be fine and it should be very summery.

My chefy friend has rented a restaurant there and will be running it for 2 months where I'll be responsible for making most of the bread needed and taking extra shifts as bartender.


I have no experience whatsoever at bartending and even though gin&tonic and rum&coke will probably be the most ordered drinks, It'd be really cool to actually learn something when goofing around down there.

Books, specifically. I have no trouble at all reading cookbooks and books about bread so any semi well written would be perfect, not necessarily with anecdotes and stories but small or huge snippets of information regarding where it came from, what's the most common variation of it etc.

Bread I can bake, but if anyone has suggestions about anything dough related that would fit with seafood, soups bistro? cuisine???!??!!?

!?


Then holler out and I'll give you a free 3er and wine for the evening when you stop by.

You've been out drinking for the past week and yesterday, as you knew you were going to wake up broke today you went the whole nine yards and you know this because you can vaguely recollect snorting coke from a strippers bared tit, licking the nipple afterwards and you know you spent your last money on a vintage moet and you're not really a man for champagne but there was this beautiful girl you saw there sitting with her friends, bubbling like the way the bubbles do when they reach your brain. This is how it happened:

She was sitting with a party of 5-6 people, people came and went and the seat next to hers was always empty. They sat on the inside but came out withing regular parameters to have a cigarette. You and your friends, of which one of them was most assuredly a chainsmoker, sat on the outside, the hope of a summer soon to come and cheap blankets from ikea to keep you warm. You knew there was about 2000 kroner on your card and you wanted to go out in a bang, you wanted someone to notice more of you and while you played with the thought of giving everyone at your table a round of moscow mule and a tequila slammer, your brain, which was more disconnected than connected with the rest of you thought the thought "When in Rome, do as the romans do". You bought a round of cheap champagne for your table, nervousness striking your heart and impairing you when you had to open your mouth.

They brought it out together with some greasy tapas which you thought was nice of them because you didn't see the crust and the dead parsely on the aïoli, didn't really taste the chorizo and never wondered how the pretzels came into play and you tipped too much. But it was okay. You'd met up with your regulars a few hours earlier, drinking swivel beer from a swivel place, talking the same shit you always thought and you thought it could be nice with a quiet night, go home, smoke a joint and watch a movie, perhaps play some warcraft and perhaps do something on the internet. It was an uncertainty that was sweet, an uncertainty where everything that could happen would be positive, would be good but the door opened with a bang and one of your other friends whom you loved dearly came in and shouted Bubbles for everyone! to the barman which swiftly brought forth one of the shittiest and cheapest bottles of cava and put it on the table along with enought white glasses for all. You stopped him. You were calm and touch his arm and said

wait
what?
what are we celebrating?
they're putting up my piece on the national theater this coming fall
we shouldn't celebrate with this shit, let's go somewhere nicer

And you did. By taxi, an expensive luxury for those almost unemployed and students. What you had in your mind when you were driven in that car was the desire for debauchery, a hope that this night would amount to something similar that you'd seen in the american pie movies, you wanted madness and you would welcome it but the fatal flaw would always have been that you didn't seek it.
You came to Champagneria, laughed at the westsiders who sat there beatifully like people only can when they've gone through life without friction.

You ate your tapas and drank your champagne and for you it was like drinking bottled sunshine, you'd never been one for the one good versus the many poor and you thought about the things you've never tried because you've never had the money or the cash for it and it was your face, lost in thought that brought real champagne to your table

'scuse me, you got a light?
huh? oh, yeah, sure
thanks
...
...
so, hi, my name is Darryn, nice to meet you
Linger here and yeah
You're called or you're named?
Named. My father, a professor in english literature at the university fell in love with that word, or, really, his highschool crush fell in love with the word and he could never get unstuck from that word
whoah, it is a beautiful word though
Yeah, not like cellar door but it's up there somewhere
open throat
huh?
I always liked open throat more than cellar door, you know mountain goats?
nuh huh
well, there's this song I can't remember but it's the tale of the singer and he's being abused when he's a child and there's a line there that goes "and the cellar door is an open throat"
huh
doesn't do it much justice spoken like that but it's really beautiful and powerful
...
So, Linger, what do you like t-

You talked for five more minutes than the cigarette lasted, she went in after a while and you resumed your drinking and the bullshitting. The round was ending and everyone was flat broke so you went inside yet again and while you stood there you saw her, distanced from everyone else she was talking to and you knew she thought of you as she did everything she could to avoid looking in your direction and it gripped you, you've been gripped like that earlier but it was about other shit, stuff you knew you didn't really care for, small trinkling epiphanies, how to solve easy mathematical questions or the reason for plot devices in movies or books but for the first fucking time you understood something about life, you couldn't define because you didn't really know but it was something, there was something there. You checked the prices and you picked what you estimated would be cleared on the mastercard and you pulled forth a napkin and a pen, wrote your phone number down, your name and asked the waitress if she could attach it to the bottle five minutes after you left.

You went out to your friends, exclaiming there was no more cash to be had, the feast was over and you trudged along, four eastside buddies heading east on the bus, broken memories was all that remained. You talked about the piece, the play and you talked about how weird it was to drink on the westside before you went back to your swivel bar where you knew you could pay later and the bartender greeted you with love, greeted you with the biggest smile and opened that bottle of cava and proclaimed that for the rest of the day, you all drank for free. You cheered and laughed and your table grew bigger and you felt you were sitting at cheers for a while for there were smiles everywhere and everything got this beautiful tint as you sat there with other students and alcoholics, your pride swelling for your friend and life was better than it'd been and you knew summer was coming soon when you could smell the asphalt and hear the trams.

It came around to closing time but you were allowed to sit there still, even smoking on the inside past anything when your cell lit up and you answered

it was cheeky, i'll admit
it was nothing but cheeky?
it was filled with fear but it was kinda beautiful
sorry, I was drunk am drunk
don't say sorry for you're in a state you want to be in
uhm, you're right, I'm sorry that I never sat myself in the chair that was always vacant
you should be
I'm just and eastside boy having nothing to do on the westside
bullshit
scuse me?
bullshit and you know it
...
Fuck you, fuck all of you wellmeaning geeks who've seen too many fucking romantic comedies you'd never admit you've seen trying to nab girls by playing all mystic and shit, I mean, fuck why does so many of you have a fucking jim morrison complex, why can't you begin to see, why can't you begin to move yourselves out of the sphere you were in when you were fucking sixteen, why the fuck?
I'd never think I was anywhere near the league I'd needed-
FUCK YOU. FUCK. YOU. How the fuck can you be so blind? This is nothing about leagues, this is nothing about fucking class or racial or whatever fucknut reason you have, fuck you.
Well, you're the most-
*click*

You went inside again, it was raining and you'd just gotten blue but you knew you had failed, you knew there was no way for you to repair this. You cursed yourself silently for your cowardness, for your retardedness and you joined your friends and while you laughed, it rang too hollow and your compliments sounded too insincere and you wanted to be in america where atleast one of your friends or perhaps yourself that had a gun at home or in your pocket, gnawing.

You became greedy, hawking tequila made in germany and smoking up to three at a time, crying silently and you were down and blue, quoting bukowski for yourself as you sat over by the bar alone, thinking of everything you should have done but never did and there's a brief flash infront of your eyes and there he is, your old gramps. Sitting in his rocking chair on the patio with you on his lap, how old were you, eight? He looks at you, straight into the eyes and says

You know son? I've never been a smart person, I've never been intelligent, never went to school but I can tell you this, if you're ever given the option of doing something or not doing something, whatever it is you should do it and you wallow in your own pity and remorse before you get the grip of yourself and you join your friends and discard the hollowness and bathe in the radiance and the love, a bartender from turkey which barely speaks norwegian, his wife who drinks alot when she's allowed, the writer who's gotten his play on the biggest stage in this shitty little city and two of your soulmates and you think, fuckit, to hell with it. It was a weeks salary and an angry phonecall but hey, that's life, let's move on and you begin silently to sing that song, kråkevisa which you and your friends have been singing since time was conceived as a concept

Og mannen han gjekk seg i veda skog,
- hei fara i veda skog. -
Då sat der ei kråka i lunden og gol.
- Hei fara. Faltu riltu raltura. -

Mannen han tenkte med sjølve seg;
Skal tru no den kråka vil drepa meg?


It was so perfect as the last line translated poorly is I'd wonder if that crow would kill me? and there was a banging, a distant banging on shatterproof glass, a dream, a movie, a play and a song coming to life untill you turned your head and it was life that was here for you now and life had kind eyes and skin that smelled of grapefruit and looked like golden bubbles, curly hair that was nothing short of perfect but most of all it was beautiful because her makeup had begun disintegrating in the rain and she stood there still, banging on the door with a poor exspensive champagne with her eyes alight and her soul on fire.

It begins with a growl, a werewolf standing on the outskirts of a city on a hill, screaming blue murder at the moon. It sniffs the air, howls and jumps out of focus in one leap. Next, we see a party, mangled beyond and there's no relationship between anyone there, it's an odd party, college kids being fashionistas and very breakfast at tiffany's brought up to speed in 2008, the party you always want to head out to.

One thousand whores stand in the living room, starry eyed watching the television of a man, soon 30 dying, black rings underneath his eyes accompanied by the music we love so much, the music stating and going firmly into shock, growing out of the ellipse they were born into, every perfect cage is not made of iron, is not black and isn't a cage in the sense because this ellipse is no illusion, break at it with your tools and weapons and it doesn't sway, it doesn't give in, it isn't any of your illusions nor any of our delusions and it isn't a prison, it isn't what will set you free when you meet it, it isn't death and it's neither human nor humane.

We want to be able to counteract what is being acted, we want it to be coherent for us, we want this world to make sense the way we've taught ourselves how it is to make sense and we want all of it to fall in under our system of understanding -

too many nights awake, contemplating humanity, destiny, life and every other bullshit theory you can get your hands at, living through these movies, living through the books realizing you're only doing this to keep the charade and to look for people that are like you, people who thought like you to find some comfort that people have been where you are and you find what you want, you find accounts of werewolves howling into the night and how lonely a werewolf really is, a diary filled with tears and clawmarks.

What do you want to hope for? An undying hope? An unyielding courage? Change? Innovation? Better lives for you and yours? Prosperity in the way you and yours think of politics, think of economy? Understanding? Peace? Love? Hate? Despair? Another shot of heroin tomorrow so you can forget you ever existed?

WRONG PLACE WRONG TIME WRONG ADDRESS WRONG COLOUR said bryon gysin at a later part of his life, after he'd been every bum boy's messiah in tangier for a decade, creating something so completely different, out of space, out of time like making a beat with a gun.

What did you hope for then? Revolutions and reforms? You found it viable, didn't you? You saw that there'd be coming a new world order and you were on the new side, weren't you? All you ever wanted to do was to fuck her and you did it this way and you spent all your scheming hours on her and you thought about her every time you wanked or every time you got wood, you saw her face everywhere and you had fallen deeply, stuck and you spent so much time and when you finally got to put your cock into her mouth you ejaculated the second tongue met throb and you grew red, blushing like a schoolgirl and when you apologized it came so naturally, mechanically like this act, rehearsed and thought through, tried and tested and you were on the verge of crying with made you think about the scene in two towers where gandalf comes with the exiled rohirrim but you didn't understand why

She drinks what is you while you apologize profusely and your mind is racing and you don't know what to say for this wasn't what you imagined the past three years, this wasn't how it was supposed to go down and the only thing you're doing is thinking about her the way she was in your head and you snatch your cock away from her and begin to wank furiously hearing the thundering of blood pumping through your cock in your head and you disappear into your own world now

she places her hand on your arm, it's cold and you can feel every nook in her skin waking you up, jerking your eyes at her and she's looking straight at you, still with her knees on the floor saying

the physical will always be unimportant, i think i love you

"You are a liar.

Yes, you.  You and every single other human on this planet.  All of us have told some lie or another at some time in their life.  A little white lie here, a small fib there, a sin of omission every now and then. Why do we do it?  Because we can't help ourselves. We lie to our friends to make them feel better.  We lie to our enemies to place traps in their way.  But most of all we lie to ourselves to protect us from the bitter truth.

Now, imagine what would happen if every single person on this planet had to tell the absolute truth for one day.  Every man, woman, and child. Every politician and lawyer. Every priest and holy man. Every salesman and haggler. What would happen? How many marriage would be destroyed? How many wars would be started? How many people would riot in the streets? Would all of society be reduced to rubble in less than a day? Maybe we need all of these little white lies and slight embellishments to glue our civilization together.

Being honest is over-rated."
   - IasonOuabache

We went ahead, our faces first, down grow deep in the mud. We'd met up with a pack of youngsters two hours before, locals, speaking a heavy danish accent on the english they wanted to share, everything else they kept for themselves. It was a festival and they had the drugs. It'll work to step over and ask if you could buy something, uncertainty in your voice triggering their predatory instincts. Giving you a bad four when you paid for top five. Is this honesty?

I'd walk over to their tent asking what they were doing as I saw two speedfreaks digging a hole and the spikes was the only thing that gave me away. I'd sit down with my sixer and half of that bushmills, giving it around and I'd spend two hours and I'd use what I knew would work, I'd tell them about the time I was so high on acid, I'd tell them about how I successfully made ramen in a coffedripmachine, I'd tell them about the time with the beerbong. Is this honesty?

Personally, I'd always prefer the story. There is no difference between a lie and a truth. There is no difference in general between lies and truths, it's like comparing stalin to franco, trying to navigate within a compass where politics still make some sense.

Communication. The people I'm most attracted to are people who know they know how to communicate or people with other thresholds and definitions of what communication means. We know already that truth is subjective, we know already that a lie is subjective. When we move onto communications' grounds, we are the objects. As we interpret and see, we are what defines a lie, what defines a truth and every author in the world can already stop writing the book about somebody trying to find the ultimate language, the binary switch for human communication.

It doesn't matter. I think that was the first thing I said after my first acid trip. None of this matters. Did it do anything? Was anything changed for the better or the worse that I thought for a year that I'd seen the godhead and stood face to face with it?

Nothing they can tell you is the truth, all they tell you is a lie. When you're sixteen you're waiting for someone to tell you a lie so you can catch them, by being superior in intellect or by being superior in browsing ananova every day.

I'm drunk now. Quite high too. This was not meant as an assault nor as a praise. I will go out to my friends in the park and I will tell them stories, some they'll laugh of, some they'll think about and some they'll just shrug and I'll know my bad stories, I'll know them.

I am drunk and you may ask me anything for by the time I'll get back here I'll answer to anything and every answer will be both truth and lie.


PS. I DID NOT READ THE OTHER THREAD PAST THE OP

"This timeless, changeless order is an assurance of unchallenged authority, a sign of safe anchorage for the troubled spirit of man."
   - Wernher von Braun


You've forgotten haven't you? Not what you know you've forgotten because everyone prods you about it but what you've truly forgotten. You forgot when they sang the national anthem and you forgot when you got old but most importantly you forgot it when you lost your virginity. You regained it after that but then it disappeared again. The interesting thing is that it stayed in your mind all the time when you were most active battling it. See? It was the only thing on your mind, sixteen years old, heading for a spree in the straightedge life, picking up vegetarianism, picking up the crust, looks, feels, fashions and trends, you hoped you were onto something, you wanted to delve deeper inside the behemoth you thought you'd stirred.

You never forget it when you're serious, it always hits you then, this disease. Standing on the barricades brandishing a flag of your own colour, there you stand, more serious than any of the philosophers you filled your head with, thinking thoughts about how you found your place in life, it doesn't cross your mind you found your place in the system or a system because you're a revolutionary, aren't you? You don't believe in Bourdieu nor any political compass. You see yourself as a new Dr. NO and sunday after sunday you discuss with your parents and family controversial issues and you do a staunch argument for the legalization of drugs and your defense of Proudhon can't even be compared with the potato salad. Which is a craft but not one you respect.

Where will you be when the world ends? Will you sit with me on the roof and marvel at the beauty? The Leonard Cohen in me tells me that I'll see you be gunned down as i drink red wine and smoke cigarettes.

In VALIS, Philip K Dick talks about the rational/irrational god/creator, visualized also as two overlapping universes, or realities where one of them is sick while the other is healthy. The sick tries to invade the healthy and this is the WAR. This was the first war. This was the first war that mattered, the war that echoed a rule, a part of the law: The victors write the storybooks. Like fungus, this concept was spread, made credible with the resistance it gained and then to every hotel and motel room in the world.

Conspiracytheory: Investing for a long time ahead, past your own life and the life of all your future generations, like the heads does to this tail, isn't this the ultimate source of control? Not going ahead telling you that you should read the bible but always supporting the gideons, letting them spread it, perhaps they give cash to tarantino, just shuffling things along, prodding at the sideflesh of society, making sure very many people agree with the aforementioned concept, where the winner writes the history books which makes them able to invest accordingly.

Things like SPECTRE and XIII can be created. I can see their process when I watch the movies, read the comics. As they say towards the end of No country for old men where they're talking about the couple in california that tortured kidnapped people and buried them in their garden and the neighbours were only alerted when they saw a man running out of the house wearing nothing but a collar, you can't invent shit like that.

We'll call it the Molotov revolution. We'll call it Jonestown. We'll call it the Silver City. We'll experience it as a nervous explosion, where every cell is shattered and not in the good way, it'll hurt. You will die the worst death you would want for yourself. You can't invent shit like that. There is no transfer, communication is broken.

You will run from corner to corner, apartment to apartment and you'll be scared and I'll be shitscared but I hold my mask as my muscles and tissue hold my face and these bones are older than time itself, these bones have seen it all, these bones. I will waiver as I stumble up the fire escape, a bottle of unmarked champagne older than myself and six crystal ones, bohemian style and top on top, a little table in dirty pastels with small cups for the dolls sitting around and I'll send the bottle and drink with my soft friends and I'll hear it and I'll feel it because this is how it'll happen.

A whimper, not a bang.

Here. I sit before you on the opposite side of this desk. I know why you're here. You're certain that I have really no idea why you're here. You feel down, abandoned and you cling to that old yarn you heard the first time so long ago. Everyone has a story to tell and there's someone out there who wants to listen to your story. You do not think the quality of the story to matter for where you are now, it's the only thing that matters, that it is yours. Your little inch against the rest of the world. Here I sit, I know this about you. I see you clear as the day. One day you hum to Masters of War as you pop by and you do not know me and I don't know you but I see you, I see the patterns in the way you act, talk and speak. You think I see only the mask you don every day but I know your mask is useless. You are no more your face than you are the muscles, fat and tissue underneath it. You can strip the world for all its masks and many have tried but they have changed nothing, just told us what we already know and given us one more way of guarding our masks for this is MAN: THE SOCIAL ANIMAL giving eachother restrictions as we build the cities in our hearts.

But I sit here now, just infront of you, here I sit with my two blue eyes. The world is against you you say once when you're down because your boyfriend left the day before with one of his groupies, fucked her in your bed too. Everything is against you but you're happy that this is there, there's no need for you now to deal with what troubles your mind, what ails your sick sick soul.
That's not even my definition. It's written in your eyes and your brows and the entirety of your face is being consumed by the guilt and you've done this before and you'll do it again, addicted to the illusion of control loss.

Recovery is all you crave, silence and a week going through life without noone knowing you exist. They put you in the limelight where they teach you to dance for them, the masters still hold their voice where the old money and old power is being held by royalists and republicans, no matter where or who they are for they are still kings, warlords in our day and age, controlling assets more valuable than guns and troopers. Aye, it's an old song still sung by the most black and red at hearts but this is still the song, this is it hitting up the beat and you've listened to it so many times, weariness follows an angry moshpit.

Dance for them in this pretty cabaret and see my eyes, see my blue eyes infront of you as I pierce your personal cloud of mysticism, as I pierce your face and your makeshift mask and I tell you what you need to survive. I set your life back on the tracks, I give you these goals, I give other things to see and I take you to the cinema to show you and the beer down on the pier where we gaze out on the sea and I give you the values you'd wish you have untill I leave you and you crumble again but find a little boy to nurture you back to health, to tend your wounds.

I'll see your name next time in the obituaries, there lies a little goth angel born in the wrong century with the wrong colour, time and frame of mind. There was one who wouldn't adapt but would rather die than to struggle on in a life she didn't deem worthy because it never deemed her worthy and her story was never a remarkable one as none of ours are, there are just things happening, there's shit and the stains that remain but there's always something inside, pandora or babushka holds these treasures and they hold them well, locked and contained.

"Let me forget said the wolf Let me forget that under these paws there were once five fingers that caressed the sun, let me forget that under this fur was once a man, once a woman and once a child, let me forget the sweeping windstrokes of the past, let me pass by without friction for my mind has always been lived through friction."

  - the Necronomicon, preface by Olaus Wormius


By time, we forget. We've forgotten what we learned at 16, popping our first meta thoughts. We've seen the sun set and seen it rise no different than any day before and we've held the hands of our lovers and our friends and told eachother that this will be a special moment. We attach ourselves subjectively to objects in our sphere, in our world. We juggle, wanting to maintain little friction but we always see back to the moments of friction as when we learned something, when we saw something new. In the struggle between doing the dishes and realizing that she did in fact not love you.

These are the echo dreams. This is when you should be learning but won't. Most people apply this logic to their schoolwork or to their work or anything else but that of being a human, ergo, the analogy of sheep or ants fit perfectly as everyone is a very decent worker just not very decent people. You are allowed to bear arms. Thus, we should bear arms. CONTROL is what's happening when one has to look to the institutions for answers, guidance or inspiration. CONTROL is what's happening when we're so fucking bored and understand what we are doing but still won't give a shit because it's boring. It's not apathy. It used to be apathy but then it got upgraded and refurbished with a web2.0 logo for the new century.

The trends and fashions are the same the prophet mused as he watched the women in his master's harem. As above so below he said out loud and was caught inbetween Universe A and Universe B and saw the battle that was there, that will always be there and have always been there. The fracture is growing every day from the healthy A and the diseased B and the blind idiot machine, God, is yet again trying to restrain the diversities of both universes within one form, one body. The creator sits silently for a long time before joining the fray against God, against an irrational godhead within an irrational universe.

This is every story you've ever told, this is every story you've ever listened to.

Listen to the germs out in your unwashed toilet. Hear their hum. Can you hear it? Try going closer with a bottle of  chlorine. Hearing it now? Yeah, they're headed for a crescendo somewhere down that road, yeah and as you go closer you can hear daes irae booming from that toilet and when you open the cap and the odour spreads you feel it. The emancipation. The silence before the chlorine. All is washed away, everything is dead. If you didn't make peace with god or yourself, it's too late.

Let us not remember our old ways our old fashions, let's not even remember why we're in the middle of this, why we're here. It's off our shoulders now, we shouldn't remember this. We shouldn't have this knowledge, not now.  We shouldn't remember that every one is buddha or a glimmering shard of hope amidst all these anglers in that lake of darkness. Not all our stories are good stories, not all our stories are interesting stories. We have all stories to tell which is the same story all of us have heard but we still relate to things with attaching our subjective to our objective.

I have no desire to be buddha, i have no desire to save anyone and not myself. There is no salvation. There is no hope, there is no judgment. There's no justice, love nor revenge, there's just us.

We sat the stars in our hearts, let the fires shine, fought teeth, talon and nail. We believed in what we did, we thought it was a reason for us doing it this way, we thought we'd seen something, heard something or simply understood something. We thought we were in the know, into a zone where the light still shimmered dark where there were no ups and there were no downs. The light was reflected, the light was dead and dormant hiding in a zone of carnivorous insight. We were dreaming, all of us of a final escape. Jumping from a shuttle at the same moment it collapsed against the spacetime. We were filled with gigantic thoughts, heavy and sullen as we stood at the edge of the abyss, wondering to jump or not.

Fear was seizing us by the heart when we stood there. Uncertainties were cropping up in our minds and there was something else here, something different shadowing through our minds, there was an echo, there was the sound of life going through our heads and minds, there was a small smell of reverberation, an echo or a ricochet that told us we'd done wrong that if we jumped now all what we thought we worked for would be lost but we didn't work for any of it, each and every one of us wanting to live a life without friction for our minds were filled with the filth of friction

As they sit down and drink the might, the power and the love, the lust, the darlings crazy go crawling through our heads, go crawling through our minds, head up and on beyond the veil, trying to see the colours of an afterlife in the life itself

- We sit and discuss Bourdieu
- We sit and discuss NiN (and how it evolved post fragile)
- We sit and discuss a world order, ours now and completely new

It's in the wind, like smelling a hundred acres filled with pot, like walking past a homeless guy who shat himself in sleep.

A man walks by, picking up two coins from his pocket and for the first time in his life he gives money to a homeless, pressing a coin to each eyelid, something stirrs within him and we sit in the window watching, drinking cheap prosecco seeing two unknown people doing this pact and we sit and see him, judging his old worn out burberry, his old dior coat and the new and shining stetson. Did we ever capture a human soul?

See to it now, evacuate the following.


Listen to him who said that the empire never ended. Remember that you live in a black iron prison. Remember that our world defines the concept of restriction, Ahriman tried to escape from Ohrmazad. Remember that those who believe in freedom are evil. Remember, remember fucktard, see beyond the shining stars of this alien galaxy, peer upon the fish in the darkest of the abyss, remember the lessons they taught you in the moon is a harsh mistress, remember to grok or try to grok everything that passes you by. Remember that life is the game played upon you by the riddler, twoface and joker, believe you are batman almost on the verge of either rescuing BOY WONDER, the love of your life or the entirety of Gotham City. Peer upon it now, ye.

Would you save one life, one soul or would you save a city of lives, a city of souls? Pick a side before they pick one for you, THEY SAY, see beyond the veil, see beyond the mortal remains of waht we don't even no longer mean, what we no longer even need, feel the brandy warming your throat, feel the cheap prosecco sliding behind it, think and sit and dream that you live in a movie, preferrably a romantic comedy because everything ends so heart-warmingly good.

Life is good, isn't it, life is the meat of a perfect peach, life is the fulfillment of your role. Life youngsters, you have already believed you have conquered most of it but now you're heading downhill, growing 22, discovering why your parents did what your parents did and scorn turns to respect and you know deep inside your heart that you've already betrayed who you were  BUT WAS IT CHANGE OR WHUT


WHU

WHUT

WHUT

WHUT

What the fuck do you remember when you wake up at 36, your first metathought still churning up inside your mind, still no answers, still no new questions. I'll meet you later on, I'll see you later on and I'll already know you, I'll know you from bourdieu, I'll know you from the game and I'll tell you these superficial lies and you'll believe it, you'll grow scared of me, find some respect dug down deep for me and you'll show it to me, you'll grow somewhat attached to me and you'll never have understood, never have seen


LIKE I HAVE SEEN


LIKE WE HAVE SEEN

Your mother is calling you.

I was in a violent mood that day. I'd been surrounded by the piss, the shit, the filth and too good friends for long. My mind grew dank, my mind had grown somewhere and I wasn't really paying attention. I was so bored. I was bored with the sparkle, I was bored with the shit and there was no difference if I drank champagne from crystal or if I drank ale for dirty jugs but I drank more champagne than I did ale and I thought I was enlightened, I thought I was born enlightened. My intellect told me that I wasn't but there was my intuition, there was always my intuition.  My most prized object in world I saw as completely mad and as I laughed of all the wrong things and weeped of all the wrong things and as I continued to take life seriously for I was a serious young boy, a bright young lad who was taken by books rather than soccer.

Then, I did it. I killed myself. I wrote myself a list of everything that meant anything to me in any form, I wrote a list of anyone I ever cared for or hated and I wrote a list of what I never wanted to become. This you see, was the way I could find illumination, enlightenment. I was in error, I'd always been in error.

It was a case of poorly placed love. There is a hand or the action of a hand that many men feel in their lives. Women feel it too but that is different. It's from a different angle where the light is shed into kinder shadows but the action of this hand flairs up when it rocks the cradle. When the man, not too late at night rocks his loved child to sleep, a sensation of deja vu sweeps through him, only, it's not deja vu, it's something else entirely which he understands as he is locked in his position, frozen over the infant making googoo gahgah noises, soon going to sleep and there are so many thoughts in that mans head then and anyone can stretch their hand and select any thought they want and make it their own. The thought they stretch upwards to Icarian flames is usually this.

I can kill this child and nothing would matter after I've done it.

Then, based on personality, they create the most elaborate of schemes inside their heads within seconds and they already know the story. How it will be told to the police, how it will be told to the neighbours, how it will be told through the wire and the press. There is no cover story. There is only the death of the infant for no other reason that one had the possibility of doing so.

"What can change the nature of a man?" - Ravel Puzzlewell, Planescape: Torment

There are two great stories in the world. One is love and the other is vengeance. Through these ancient of stories comes other stories, smaller stories but every story written is based on love, is based on vengeance, every human life is based on either these. The notion of illusions is created by those too smart for this world, a segment I call "Genious and Lazy" for most genious people are lazy while most lazy people aren't genious.  You say there are illusions but I beg to differ as someone else here, on this very board, begged to differ that there is no world spanning conspiracy driven by will. The illusions are our cushions so that we shan't fall so hard when we one day realize that everything we fed them in their little man speeches are there for us too. They say that death knows no rank, death knows none but the flesh it can feast on.

Really?

Death. What story is death? What is all this shit about death? It happens or it don't and when it almost happens why do we think that it could never happen to us? We are special, we've built this faboulous world where we go around and cast spells all day on those we love and the only thing we are, is bored. Did you spot a silver lining? Did you find a frame of reference where you could live your life and be happy about it, did you see something none other had seen, a hidden beauty, a gem tucked away in the filth? Of course you have, because you're special, special like a face scarred with a glasgow kiss, special like a crystal of the whitest snow dropping from the heavens and into our streets where you turn black along with your perfect wings.

Did you find something that mattered? Did you seize it and did you hold it tight to your bosom for the rest of eternity? If you didn't, you should. There is no salvation for yourself or for others. There is no hope for either yourself or for others. There is no light in the darkness, everything has turned gray. Was there something you could fight for? Was there something you could die for?

Yes, that old tale. How many men have died for their country and how many of them wanted to do so? Do you believe in your country? Do you believe in a god somewhere, benevolent or not, do you believe in something bigger than yourself? Stop. Go back to your work for you must pay your bills, you must supply food for yourself and your loved ones, mustn't you? Change the world, change yourself or change yourself, change the world.

I lost my hope on a dreary wednesday afternoon, drinking tea and eating scones. I'd met with someone who I hadn't met in a long time but it wasn't her fault that my epiphany shone through the dark clouds, it wasn't her fault that I was brought to some crude enlightenment. She was a backdrop and up untill then I'd believed the whole world was a stage and most of the time, comedies were put on. Nothing shakespearian for shakespeare wouldn't have shit to write about us. I got home and made my lists and then I killed myself to find who I was.

We need titties. Titties. Titties you see, we need 'em. We've been sleeping, we've been sleeping, listening to mountain grind down to ravines and creeks and we've listened to the ocean, we've listened to the ocean as it began creating life, just a gentle hum first but gaining momentum, there's a crescendo coming and we've heard the universe open up its heart for us and we've listened, we've heard, we know what's out there, we've seen everything and now we return, we return with godsight. Titties!

It was Aurakles who threw the spear through ten thousand years where it hit its mark. Love and Vengeanced pierced the last ten thousand years of human civillization, aligning the stars and everything else needed for the correctness of it all so every astrologer, astromancer, scryer, clairvoyant or insane prophet can fathom it. They say there are gods, demons, angels and they create more rules and bonds by forming religions but there is no belief. There is no belief needed, there are no truths that can only be accepted on its' own premises, there's a spear going through the millennia which name is both Love and Vengeance and it was thrown by the first superhero, the first new god.

"You think celebrity and money makes you invulnerable? You think your fancy suit makes you a hero? You think by dressing up and talking big you'll put a stop to EVIL men? I have news for you, Shilo Norman. You shouldn't have come into my world.

You are smaller than a grain of sand.

And evil is a mountain." - Dark Seid, Seven Soldiers of Victory


Was there something you had to remember? You left something on the stove, didn't you and now you're all tangled up in social relations and you don't remember it anyhow but you did forget. Somewhere along the way you forgot something and now that you've forgotten it, you've never actually done it, yet, untill you do it again. See? I told you i needed titties, we've been sleeping for far too long.

How did you forget? Entertain an aging man with anecdotes of your wild wild life. Tell me your wildest stories, share with me your biggest triumphs and your biggest failures. Tell me, for the first time, open up, I'm only here now as I am now, later I will come as something different, but now, before the judgment, tell me of you. Tell me your story for isn't it like that in your hope filled heart that everyone has a story to tell? Everyone is a fool, a lover, a villain or a hero. Tell me of what you've done with life. Tell me the tales that noone else have heard.

We pass these words to eachother, friends with undying loyalty as we grew up together and we'll stick around for eachother, no matter the fucking what, we'll stick here to you, we'll back eachother up. We're sitting in a kitchen, it's a dirty kitchen, it's my kitchen and the tulips died a week ago and the water's dried up, unmoving shades of life that will crackle and turn to dust if touched, the beautiful Rushka porcelain from a designer who knew how a cup should feel between the fingers, filled with icecold orangejuice or hot coffee. We're still in the kitchen, I'm working up my buzz, a couple of beers, a few shots of zubrowka, second joint being passed around and someone's out in the hallways, getting some coke and I catch myself in thinking that it should have been me that had the goldfish memory and retarded laughter as i constantly smoke but here he stands, telling us it's really good shit, better than last weekend which funnily enough was what he said last weekend and I drown myself in naivete as I know that the drugs that keep coming in just become better and better and in one year from  now you'll find me on the mountain

of cocaine further down the street and I'll be lying ontop of it dead, with blood and shit flowing through the white dunes and there'll be people everywhere, finally getting their greed satisfied, snorting themselves to death bringing them into the history books from afar

and as we tell the story to eachother, each one giving a piece, rumbling laughter and everyone's in the zone and everyone's here but it's not crowded, it's not intimidating, there are no silences because noone has thought about it. We're sitting in that kitchen, the sun's setting and it's early yet but there's this magic in the air, this tingle in the brain. It's one of those days when everyone has enough to drink, someone brings pizza and because there are only friends that have known eachother for far too long, there's something honest in the air which everyone knows will change when we step out of our own boundaries and into the boundaries of everyone else.

Did you see the grimace that I made? Did you see the tear that went down her cheek when she saw you, now? Did you listen to them? Did you listen to the people and their gentle song? Did you partake in honesty in that discussion or were you after the redhead? They've said that the government haven't heard their people's voices for far too long but we listen to their hum every day, we listen to the people under the stairs.


You will come in through that door soon. I know it, I've known you far too long. I'm passing out now, some are breaking away, they're leaving and I can hear you, I can hear your voice through the hum of the people, the radiance
Too many hours of drugs, too little drugs going up and I think I'm in my bed and from my headset I can faintly hear some pink floyd and I grow so shallow as I go on a spiritual walk on drugs, a whole bed vibrating in different colours and feelings and life is a scrapbook of memories and that's about it.

You'll come through the door, gently, asking if I'm asleep and I'll make a sound that resembles no and you'll ask if it's okay if you crash here, still so gentle because we didn't speak much tonight and I'll say yeah, I'd love for you to do that and then I'll try to sit up and get these rags of my body and you're a little bit confused, you're still thinking untill I turn on the light and you go calm and I go bathe in your skin and in one hour you'll ask me

do you love me?

and I'll say

not yet

you'll say

everyone will always be too late

and I'll say

it's the fate of humanity

and you'll say

"the words dont mean anything anymore
they used to be the keepers of sacred knowledge
but there is no meaning to them anymore
there is nothing
a word is a ghost trapped between two worlds
a word is a secret whispered underneath rainheavy umbrellas
a word is a lie, always a lie
a word is a truth, first and foremost a truth
most importantly a lie"

-- The final book of Jihad as interpreted by Olaus Wormius and subsequently included in the Necronomicon

(after much debate in the society of sorcerors upon that time)

What makes a good shepherd?
What makes the best Gordon Gecko and why is greed, why is greed important for america? Why have your eyes seen so much more than the rest and why do we still dream of your faraway lands? Who is america?

Who is any country?
It's you. That final torment. It's you. You're the one chummy. Yeah, is right, you's da one and most people think they understand this so they make campaigns, vote or die, believe in us or be damned for all eternity and everything works, for all of mankind are but tribes, enclaves of humans sharing the same beliefs, the same system that made us rustle-bustle through the caverns, painting and fucking. We're still the same but the old lines work in new ways now, cords between tincans have been upgraded and so has our emotional world, where intuition meets intelligence.

But!

As the goose was trapped in its bottle, it was mere words. A lyrical fata morgana spawned on the brink of your dreams and the horizon of hope.

A man is training martial arts at the invisible college. He is skillful but young. His final test is before him and he walks blindfolded backways up the mountain and meets his totem. The scorpion chooses but how did you choose? What did you put into the basket before selecting? Was it his good looks, his wonderful charm, the part of him that said I CARE NOT and at the same time said BUT REALLY I CARE. Where were your dreams? Why was your dreams so retarded? Wake the fuck up, try to become more than you are. We're dependent upon you. We're dependent that you grow up and teach us things, figure shit out with us, it's teamwork doll and we have no Is in the team just yet.

See the barrier. Did we make a bad choice? Was words a bad choice? This little road we're in, this little cave, painting life with feces and blood upon these here walls. The world is on the outside, it's crackling, there's sounds and noises coming through the radio and we sit here with each and every of our computer tapped into this little well of information, libraries spanning the entire human history and everything we've thought or learned but still we are no closer. The barrier, the word is sword, two edges.

The one edge allows us to communicate. We were cast out of the garden.
The other showed us silence. The black hole which now is filled with communication.

We are the dormant children. Dormant with stupidity, heroin, ignorance, greed, wellmeaning, marijuana, obsession and most importantly belief.

Move those mountains fuckers, get on move.

This is about the city. It's about the filth and shit and the vermin. It's about humans. It's about Pavlov and his dogs.

It isn't about hope. It isn't about love. It isn't about beauty and it isn't about illusions, it's not about fnords and it sure as hell isn't about discordianism.

We can't all be eris.

Tick tick tick as we drive through the madness that's forever fornicating in our local newsstands, the dawn of mankind they say, that's when the shiznit hit it, that was the time when we should have been alive some say while others jump uneasily into the corner saying THATS WHEN THE DINOSAURS LIVED and every weekend and every day perhaps we go home to these fuckers, halfdrunk but never enough but he says he has more, he says he has something that'll blow our minds so far out of the water we don't ever want to touch alcohol again, never want to touch any drug whatsoever for we'll be so fucking blown out of the water that we don't know what way is up, what way is down and he's pasty and pastry with a complete lack of chin but with long jetblack hair, recently dyed and I'm getting drunker as we walk home to the guy and we sit down in his little ikea shithole, giddy with anticipation and he's one of those fuckers asking if we want tea before he presents his merchandise and while he's boiling the fucking water and i'm not drunk enough to say that he shouldn't and i'm not drunk enough to slap my legs on his table and demand something that'll blow my mind completely and annihilate it all, oblivion is where I want now and he does this tea ritual like he's some kind of old chinese poet, treating the china with reverence before he puts on some old roswell tape from the early nineties and it's so tacky and so is he.

I fall asleep.

The anti-climatic yesterday brings me out into the street, out among the beggars, drunks and businessmen, the only people awake this time of morning. I've never liked beggars, drunks or businessmen. Beggars because I've never known any that wasn't backstabbing thieves, drunks because they're too fucking boring and businessmen are a mix of the both. The salt of the earth.

No. This doesn't work. This is not who they are.

They are the filth and the whores and the thieves and shits of this world, they are the vermin, spaced out enough that you'll get your dose before getting home, a brain filled with rancid waste and

This doesn't work either. It feels like there's misery underlying, there's a story to be told, an interesting story to be known.

There is none. People may have stories to tell but as 99.xx% forgot they're buddha and I'm waging that the same percentage doesn't know how to tell their lifestories or any story interesting at that. There's nothing to say about them for we all know about them. Anyone with half a brain can see beyond the veil, watch that which is there and not what they want to have there. Illusion = impotence. We have no idea what we're doing, scraping our brains off of half coordinated gestures, blushing at the walls we built for ourselves so that we could do like good old peer gynt, we could go to the left or the right but never straight through, never straight to.

It's okay. I mean really, I've laid a few bricks on that wall myself. We've all been afraid for stupid shit. This is dangerous, because we've been afraid and we've learned, yeah we've learned, past past past past past past, we haven't learned jackshit for the future. We've understood that the mechanisms for fear are the same mechanisms for love, hate and every other feeling out there, just with different patterns of interpretation. We've learned that there's really nothing to fear when asking a girl out for a date, we've learned that there's really nothing to fear when we're going 110 heading for a tree.

We've gotten perspective on it but we haven't gotten a perspective on our lives as we wallow in fear but things we don't recognize as fear, new things or simply shit that has an added component we like so much that we disregard any other mechanics. BLIND MOTHERFUCKERS BLIND.


I'm so tired now, I think I sleep 14 hours a day. It's that time of year again but there's no snow but the snow made it all brighter, made it more beautiful, coated everything with a layer of illusion that has no agenda. Humanity has failed at whatever mission. Pick one and it's failed it. From trying to evolve into celestial gods or just learning how our fucking thumbs work, we've failed. We were trying to do something here on this globe but travelling salesmen came by and gave us baubles.

We sure love ourselves some baubles and what we love even more is when history repeats itself as it's so fucking comfortable, we've read the books we know what happens and like we build ourselves a cubicle of fear first day at the office before getting comfortable, we do it again. Just because it's the same thing. Now they're saying we're specializing. Facilitating. Innovating.

We're not. We're shooting ourselves in our feet, forgetting that we're bleeders.

This wasn't where we wanted to be, hats in our hands glaring upwards, waiting for something to finish us off. There was blood on the most of us and there were remnants lying around, some who'd once been people, someone who'd once been in disagreement with us. There is no glory. There is no heroic effort, there is nothing which you sacrifice everything else for to taste for a second brief that will change your life. Knowledge is the hardest of our skills to master and we have no idea anymore to do, there's a spiral opening up inside us and a surge of information passes but we are the broken, we are the kaput. Jesters with broken bells, blood to our bellies walking through the crash site.

They have faces, they have hands, emotions and intuitions. You feel them sometimes when you slip off, when you bite over too much or too little, you know where you're headed but there is no why for you left why behind so long ago. As long as you can explain it to yourself, what good is everyone else? what pictures do they have fleeting in their skulls, why did we do this to ourselves?

It was always easier in the war, there was no time to stop and think, there was only black and white and the dullening grey filling up. There was nothing real except the madness of those who believed and we stood there, broken people with heads spiked up high into the air. What is it about our enigma? Does it go further or does the depthness of humanity stop somewhere as the equilibrium to the never ending universe? Does it matter?

These thoughts, these words. This mind. This soap. Why this soap, why these hands? Why this face at 0600 in the morning?

We've gone far beyond, we can't answer these questions, we can't reply to them, we're too deep inside it, we've grown too far into it and the noise of the mechanical bees ring in our ears, the pulsing metal heart keep pumping oil and blood and sweat and piss through our minds, through our lives and that's where we are. Nothing picks up on the radar because we're sitting on the radar, we're here, we've always been here.

http://www.lots2luv.com/tgp/d29_n5/d29_n5_g2.html NOT SAFE FOR WORK AND CONTAINS PORNOGRAPHIC MATERIAL!


"You gentlemen who think you have a mission
To purge us of the seven deadly sins
Should first sort out the basic food position
Then start your preaching, that's where it begins" - Brecht/Weill

I'm listening to this box I asked to get from the local chapter of scientology. Last week, I let two Jehovahs witness type scienetologists come by for coffee. I asked them but they didn't want coffee, tea nor water. Wouldn't have biscuits or the last two pieces of green brownies either which probably would have made the following thirty minutes much more interesting for they very young men, very insecure, not really dressed neatly, but accepted, what is the most dull pieces of clothing you find at H&M, Marks and Spencer and there is never no regard to colour nor style.

"I don't have swiss bank accounts" - L. Ron Hubbard

Then I see tom cruise, first at oprah, then at the leaked movie where for the first time I realize one of the differences of the new and the old world. Not the message of cruise or the lack of one, but the way it was shot, the way the thing had been edited, the music, watching american gladiators for we have our old stone buildings that remind us that god is in the sky and he is not a kind god. Then I see hubbard, I recollect all the stories from other scifi authors at the time and it hits me that george lucas is our age's hubbard.
I think of tom and his poor wife kat and the insecure little boys, coming to the doors of strangers, doing it out of fear, fear that if the doctrine is wrong, fear that the doctrine is right, fear that their parents won't accept them, fear of what happens when someone finally opens the door, there are mad men around, mad killers and the worse. They speak, they recite the texts and the glassy stare of the zealot is all that stares at me but there's a jolt, there's something in them, it has nothing to do with being devout, it has nothing to do with being born again but it is something worse, you see the spark of car's salesmen, 711 clerks, CEOs, ADs and the people at the library that won't let the fine pass, there is a love inside those eyes, the love of the law. Stability. Freedom. Safety. Everything. They're the peak of human evolution for they believe that. We're stuck outside in the cold, atleast to them, our eyes are glassy too but from drugs, hungover mornings, too much caffeine or just a retarded hope for mankind.

"Then we're all set, for a cannibal feast!" - Fantômas, Spider Baby

The world slips out of focus, into focus as we bend our minds beyong recognition with reptilians, spaghettimonsters, spacelords, demiurges, all-seeing eyes and this little greek chick whom everyone has a hardon for.

"And it feeels like swimmin'" - Morphine, Feels like swimming

Then we go drown just to check it out, the beach sometime around late summer, the spastic crave of a few more hours of sun before we head into the total darkness as we bury ourselves from the rest of the world and the beer keeps flowing and there are joints and memories being passed around the campfire and someone brings a case of prosecco and everyone takes to an italian accent and we're just running around, happy to be alive, happy to be able to feel something, happy to be drowning in each other's minds and this is important, this day feels like it should have significance and we all feel it, a violent torrent throwing us through the tempest and we know every part of our lives, we know ourselves and today we're ready for a revolution, we're headed for bliss and the godhead.

Waking up, sunburnt, most have already gone home and you've gotten pneumonia and you're coughing bad, sort of blue where there hasn't been any sun and you kiss that girl you would have died for yesterday before you struggle yourself over to your car, drive home, leaving your summer behind on the beach, with all the filth, the shit and two of your soulmates.
For months you are pissed, a little knot inside your stomach and you know it will disappear at first epiphany, you know they're related, you know this, the knot knows it and you feel pregnant. Impotent.

And then, as you walk through the forest on a cold autumn day, one of the last days with a few leaves left it hits you and you bring yourself to another degree of understanding, another point of view and it might not change anything but it's a memory that'll stick.

I'm watchin l ron hubbard on the screen and I see tom cruise, i see the same zealotry, the same complete loss of hope or anything left in this world to hold onto that makes sense and they're so filled with fear and I notice in the paper that two scienetologists had been beaten to death by angry psychriatic patients. The prophets had gone to the center for free psychiatric help there and begun preaching.

The world turns, and ages come and pass.

Sometimes, I get this weird feeling that if the children of flowerpower had suceeded in creating something more of substance from their trend, things might have worked out differently. Peace, love and understanding would be in abundance. Illuminated buddhas would walk the earth, bring us further in, further out of the cosmic correlation we are a part of. We would be operating spaceship earth at full capacity. We'd be drinking the dreams of gods for breakfast along with our runny eggs and crisp bacon.

Then I catch myself thinking and I remember that people is filth. My thoughts are simple: I like the concept or the idea of humanity but despise individuals and masses, as they are the same. There is no strength in numbers, there is security. The walls to the gated communities are hard to climb but still we find ourselves climbing them. We turn away some times, but return to that glorious road again and again and again. It is where we meet our friends, our enemies and those that provoke nothing but apathy.

Shouldn't we get bored? Isn't this just dull? The continuation of these systems that have been buried for so long in our hearts, don't you feel the agonizing pull of past fuckups? You did this mistake earlier and you now you're doing it again. Where would we be if everyone had your attention-span? Why do you remember that particular ad you're going to tell the lads at the watercooler about tomorrow? You wanted to gamle today, but you didn't, you bought tuna for your cat and not duck.

You head out into the street, ready to bash something in the name of the true aryan blood or the true god or that pure ideology. Perhaps you're just bored and throwing bricks seems like a good way to pass the time? I don't judge what people eat nor what they believe. I judge in peoples taste of cigarettes and alcohol. I judge you when you fry the egg in a white-hot skillet.

There is no point in judging you when you're in a group because you won't learn anything and nothing good will come out of it. Nothing I can use, nothing you can use.

Fight the war if you want but remember that you are not a god-king. You are not a philosopher. You are a snowflake, crafted by chemists in a laboratory, waiting to be spread out over some halfpipe that's rotting. There's a hole in the sky.

Hating groups of people is like chewing amphetamine and viagra, sitting in your childhood room wanking. You get at one kind of hate but there are other ways to perfection it, there are ways to make it what you wanted it to be. You don't lock your mind in with hate, you lock your mind in when you hate the same things you used to hate, the same things everyone hates, the things you can find a million reasons to hate. Everyone can find those, ickle snowflake.

Find the mask and the man behind it. Figure out why you hate him after you've been out drinking with him for a night. Go deeper in your hate as you do your love, get to know your nemesis and feel the fiery talons rip in you.

Then.

Go.

Proceed out into the world and hate.

"...to summon back the Fire witch to the court of the Crimson King" - King Crimson


Do you feel it? Time speed up, accelerating upon itself, the last black hole, or, more will come but none to write the history. Enveloped by the beginning of the fourth tide and the 23rd solar cycle we move forward as Rand al'Thor reaches Tear.

Do you see it now? Time bending, repeating.

"..and life imitates tv" - Ani Difranco

What is time? Not as a mathematical concept, but how do we relate to time? How does time feel? What is contained in time? Are days, hours and years anything but markers? Skip, fast forward, add a bookmark, rewind.

"Roads? Where we're going we don't need roads!" - Doctor Emmet Brown

Time is what will kill us, probably at the same time we're killing time. Wars are there because some of us need to die for something else than us. When will the level 70 druid, purpled up hiss ass receive the same recognition as your great grandfather did as he died in Auschwitz? Did he fall from the guard tower? And that druid, probably female and male on the physical plane, a human created by doritos, dunkin donuts and pizza hut, when will he get his statue?

It's gonna come. Starting slowly, with ingame funerals, with a small cult following planning gas attacks on the tokyo subway way back over in seoul a 16yo kid gets a billion dollar deal and the children stand around him, screaming beatles sore, waiting for a ritual, waiting for something to fill their lives with.


I hope I die infront of the telly or playing world of warcraft 5. Dirty underwear stained with cum and shit and blood and they'll find a halfways eaten dog, enough pizza takeaways to feed uganda for a year and the place has got to reek, rank and dark and filled with shit. I hope the landlord has to tear it all away and renovate it completely and that is my last happy thought as my heart shits itself out, smashing the window and escaping into the cold free air. I hope that'll wipe my raid too.

These are my hopes and these are my dreams. This is all my feverish nightmare, constructs within constructs, the same system governs everything, the same system is repeated in all we do.

"And so your life
Your life has failed
You've made the progress of a snail
Don't worry you'll get your revenge
For we're all equal in the end
The small and mighty all the same
This life a shallow, facile game
Where every empire turns to dust
And every ego will be crushed" - The Tiger Lilies


As we kill time, time passes. Slowly but clearly and sometimes stuff happen in our lives and it feels like it goes so fast and you become paranoid. You think the end of the world is coming as you hope the end of the world is coming. You love them like brethren but their desire for stupidity is overwhelming and you look down at the kids on the bus, coming home from school, talking about how they've discovered dead kennedys, joy division, arthur koestler, aldous huxley, george orwell, lovecraft and the works of jack kirby, your whole life being played infront of you, infront of this insecure little nerd, sweating and those beady charcoal eyes.

Those beady charcoal eyes holds the future, our future in his hands. Will there always be a fight, always be a struggle?

"We are indeed the filthiest of creatures!" - Divine, pink flamingos

Your ego holds little of interest when it's been used to limit yourself.

Everything you can conceive is a weapon and there is little interesting to linger in Freud and Learys circuits. You attempt to interpret something you can't comprehend. Nothing can truly be comprehended. One can bow and smile and nod find your soulmate move to india join a self efficient fairtrade cocoa farm in southern america join medicins sans frontiers as a nurse or better yet a clergy stationed somewhere safe clicketyclack goes the typewriter and as you kill time and kill people with your typewriter of retardedness (+2) time kills you stone cold.

The cocaine from last night will burn away your fucking useless mind and as you sit on the phone with your husband or wife, not getting yourself to finally say I love you, a thought that's been cropping up in your mind for years but you couldn't see it, interpret it nor understand it so you never said you loved anybody.

And so we die, one by one, some by peace and other by violence and as the Dragon Reborn cling to the throne of power, the war cries of al'Lan Mandragoran fill the sky.


"In a hundred years time, it'll all be forgotten" - Knut Hamsun

We stick to the deals they made for us. We stick to the life and the lies they already birthed us into. They say we're headed off on the wrong track, they say we're headed for the wrong mount doom, where all heroes will be dead and gone, the smouldering remains of us is all that'll be left and a little burnt up crisp of a lump saying "fuck you" every third minute.

I know who you are. You're one of them fellers that took "nothing is true, everything is permissable" to your chest at too young an age, you grew up too fast, you grew up too cleanly. You knew your hindi texts at 17, you knew everyones political agenda by the age of 18, having stopped by every ideology and or religion on your way, studying them, not knowing what to look for on an intellectual level but there was this gut that told you what you were looking for, you wanted answers, simple and clean on the equations of both life and anti-life so you could get it out of your way, so you could stop lying sleepless watching the ceiling, thinking about nothing when asked as you couldn't really be arsed to explain it all.

You were there. You thought about the end of the world. The meaning of life. You thought about dangleberries and whether the soul was inside the body or the body inside the soul.
Now you sit, homecozy on that stool, sipping pernod and smoking french cigarettes. They'll call you smart behind your back, they'll give you all the respect anyone could ever ask for, they'll OOH and AAH when you say that "it's gonna end like any good story. in tears". You sat down and didn't get up. Garth fell on his keys but he got up.

This isn't really you, is it? This is just your ego, how you'd want it to be, seen through the tint of film noirs and your glass of pastis. Yet you still sit there, now musing that you'll die alone, Mr.Dyer from Reality Bites, check the fuck in. You'd love, wouldn't you? You'd be fucking jumping through hoops of happiness if you'd been rammed by a car, rammed by love, rammed by hate but mostly rammed by understanding.

Occasionally, you open up. Occasionally, when drunk you'll confess your love, still lost and will always be so. Drowned in these dreams but you don't get off, you don't get up but put more and more of the drugs that has made you into you, creating a superstructure of your own mind, devouring all that can be seen in these eyes for you've been blind for so long and one day you will unfortunately wake up and remember.

Remember that nothing matters because there is no truth.

Remember that everything matters because there is no truth.


Remember that none of this shit will ever matter because you'll always be a boring cunt.

"Remember remember the fifth of.."

Remember it was all a game, play pretend.

Remember to take the last pill, remember to cut the right way.

I've heard you scream so many times, a whimpering wail. Limpdicked staring into the existential abyss and instead of diving in you sit on the edge, pouting your lips and posting on myspace.

Remember that every person has a story to tell, remember that not all stories are interesting.

Remember you used to have eyes alight with fire and soul.


Remember yourself so I don't have to push your ego up when you destroy it yourself, remember your face before you were born so I don't have to remember it for you as you sit in your couch and drool on ten tabs of acid, remember that I'll always leave you when you need me the most in a hope captioned in hopelessness for you to learn.

Learn.
Remember.

The day passes as more and more of us sit down to angle in the lake of darkness. Feet and legs gently rocking over the calm surface. There's three of us and we're all here to die. Cursed and damned and doomed, all the same, as the weeks pass by we are struck with epihpanies for our road has already been set. Our road has already been crafted from the finest of materials but all our roads are different. As we sit into another twilight hour an old man passes by in a low boat, and he recites as he stakes his way down the river and into our hearts.

"O see ye not yon narrow road,
so thick beset with thorns and briars?

That is the path of righteousness,
though after it but few enquire.

And see ye not that broad, broad
road that lies across yon lily leven?

That is the path of wickedness,
though some call it the road to heaven"

He takes his time passing us before looking, shooting us a stare saying simply:

"There's a third road.."

We peer upon eachother, we look ourselves in the eye. The dream has begun to grow and we can no longer trace the contours and a though pops up in the mind, an old mantra, an old saying; "If noone report it to the cops, was it a crime?" and we witness the tree as it falls. Like we are sure to fall, that everything seething inside us will fall and be gone, erased. None will the know story of us three as we conquered the last myths of life and humanity in the setting sun, angling from the lake, trying to catch enough fish to fill our bellies.

"What, you sayin' it's a small world?"
"Hell no, it's a big world. Only problem is that there's only seven stories in it."
-100 Bullets

Seven stories, seven soldiers, seven sins. Does the Great Librarian catalogue each and every one of us in our sins and in our minds? Species, sub-species. Was Linné right, does it apply to  humans and was there truth in his words when he said god has catalgoued us already and gone past the stars? Wernher von Braun gave us the moon and he thought that there was a god in heaven and that nothing in science had told him otherwise.

Everything runs through eachother, everything is connected. You see, there are only seven stories but there are three roads. Do you see the connection?

We drive down into the darkness. We try to find our souls, we look for them the deeper we go, but the further down we go, the darker it gets and it's only alien fishes that light it up. Some local indians say that dreams are stored down there, horrible souls from another age, keeping to themselves or being caught. They say they are gods and god-killers and sun eaters. They say, one day, they will wake up and harvest mankind. They are called the Sheeda and is our evolutionary pinnacle, time travelled and Aurakles threw the spear, whose name is both Love and Vengeance through ten thousand years. Aurakles mad, seven soldiers will unravel the attack.

They might fail. The world will end. So whatcha gonna do?

Yawn? You've seen it all before. Zombipocalypse? Got a shelter in the basement and no movies have predicted a very long life-span, so three years down there just masturbating and smoking pot sounds peachy keen and you've seen to it that it will work.
Meteor from outer space? Don't worry, they'll make it, sacrifices must be made but hey, that's how it goes when the finger of god touches your brain.
Enviromental disaster? I'm not much of a hippie but we've been kinda retarded so, why the fuck not?

Pick one. You know the scenario,  you know their strengths and you know their weaknesses and it's gonna be allright. Yeah, don't worry. Relax, you've earned it because you're the TRUE hero, right? You know how you do this shit, blue-collar fucktard getting the shitty end of the stick and every day you go home and you feel like a hero, because you're the champ man. You're the champ.

The Sheeda are coming to harvest mankind, to feed upon the memetic languages and our  culture. They're gonna harvest our souls and books and yeah, you might die. Actually, you have to die to feed who we will become. You have to die for future generations, or if the Sheed wipes out enough of themselves, will they be unmade as the universe pops a spoke and we whimper out and our last memory from our collective subconsciousness is that we should've stayed up in the trees.

We are all mimes in a world were few creators touch and every day that we hear about pain we think that it won't happen to us, untill it does, like a fashion trend that looks like shit.

The dreams are down here and old demons too but we can't see what's what because of the fishes. All we see are fishes.